Heroes Are Made of This
by Mahiri Chuma
Summary: Five times Murdock rushed to save a member of the team and the one time they all rushed to save him. For A-Team kink!meme. H/C
1. Of BandAids, QTips and Lotion

Heroes Are Made of This  
by Agaetis Byrjun  
Rating: T  
Word Count: 28,268  
Summary: Five times Murdock rushed to save a member of the time and the one time they all rushed to save him.  
Disclaimer: It's not mine, any of it!  
A/N: Done for the A-Team kink!meme.

* * *

- One: Of Band-Aids, Q-Tips and Lotion -

_A hero is a man who does what he can._

- Romain Rolland

* * *

Murdock stared at the clock fixed to the wall as he bit the inside of his cheek in growing anticipation.

The mission was supposed to have ended hours ago and though he understood they had to go through debriefing and probably had their own things to do, they always made a point to come check in with him.

He huffed and turned his head to look out the window; there was absolutely no visibility so the view was pretty shitty. It was in the middle of typhoon season and the rain had been relentless for the past two days.

His team had gone active the day the storm system moved in and Murdock really hadn't liked the idea of some random pilot bringing his team to the drop zone in near hurricane force winds, but for all his protesting and what Face had been inclined to call a hissy fit, he didn't have much say.

Face had promised it would be nothing more than a fling; that the other pilot didn't mean anything and he'd always be their number one aviator but he couldn't help but cross his arms and make Face promise to bring him back a souvenir.

He was grounded with a capital 'G' and all because of a tiny little whole in his liver. The shot had been clean, through and through, entering his back and exiting his abdomen and he hadn't even known it happened at first – 'at first' being the key phrase because once he _had_ realized it, saw that unusual growing red spot on the front of his T-shirt and then B.A.'s expression when he fell forward, it felt like, well, it felt like he got shot in the back.

Now he was at the tail end of his two-week enforced bed rest and he was beginning to get ground sick and a little stir crazy. He wasn't sure he could handle anymore re-runs of Moraeshigae, Damo or Hur Jun – there was only so much South Korean soap opera television a man could take – and no matter how many times he asked for red Jello they always, without fail, brought green.

Then there was the uncomfortably strict drug protocol. Military hospitals were strict, they had to be, but it was one of the things he hated most about being hospitalized. They picked his medical records apart, taking in his vast list of current and previous medications and then created a protocol they found most appropriate. Sometimes they'd get it right, other times they wouldn't – this stay was a good example of the latter and though it wasn't his worst experience he had had, he looked forward to regaining some semblance of control.

There was also the fact that his nurse seemed to have it out for Billy; he swore he saw her kick him once and that, in his book, was simply unforgivable.

He sighed and reached for the small stack of comics Face had left on his bedside table, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that was worsening with each passing minute.

There was a loud boom of lightening and the ground shook, only adding to Murdock's fears, and the lights flickered for a moment before turning off. The lack of power didn't last long, however, as the generators kicked in with a hum.

He turned the page, not really taking anything in as his mind continued to drift in more negative directions.

The wind speeds, if Murdock had to judge by the hell outside his window, were probably around 80 miles-per-hour and with those hurricane force rainbands and eyewalls the risk of losing lift and having a blade break off was extremely high …

Which meant it was also highly unlikely that any choppers were getting off the ground …

Murdock stopped himself, not wanting to allow himself to spiral into a hopeless and vicious circle of negative thinking because they were fine – B.A. was probably sleeping off whatever drug they had used on him to get on the transport, Hannibal was just debriefing and writing up his report and Face, well, maybe he caught sight of some long-legged someone.

Yeah, that was it; he just needed to sit back, relax and enjoy his comic books and evil green Jello -

"Captain Murdock?" He glanced at the clock and fought the urge to make a cross with his fingers, hiss and then promptly retreat into the sheets.

"I took them already – at three …" The nurse blinked and shook her head as she moved hurriedly to the side of his bed, pushing a wheelchair in front of her.

Murdock subconsciously shied away. No matter how many times Hannibal assured him it would never happen, he didn't trust hospital staff to not commit him or wheel him away and lock him in a room where he'd spend the rest of his days watching the walls melt.

"No, it's not that, we are moving all the first floor patients to the second floor."

"Why?" He furrowed his brow, still suspicious.

"We're starting to get some flooding – " He didn't listen to the rest, only caught snippets – something about the danger of electrocution, something minor like that – and looked back out the window. Where the hell was his team?

"Umm, ma'am," He squinted at her nametag, "Lieutenant Roberts, have ya seen Colonel Smith or Lieutenant Peck … Corporal Baracus, maybe? They were on wait for extraction today –"

She shook her head, distracted by the sounds in the hall.

"Sorry, Captain, the last extraction was yesterday afternoon," She said as if the fact that several teams were potentially caught in the middle of a typhoon was no big deal, "communications are down and well, all the birds are grounded, because of the storm."

"Yesterday –" He swallowed as the nurse pulled the chair's footrests out, his head suddenly feeling very fuzzy.

So, if he was following their short exchange correctly, communications were down (which meant his team had no way of making contact with base), extraction pilots were grounded (meaning his team was also grounded or rather stranded) and the typhoon had escalated to base-flooding status (and his team was out there in _that_ storm).

Already, his mind was formulating all sorts of plans of actions and all of them were admittedly stupid.

There was a bang in the hall and he flinched.

"Nurse Roberts, we need you out here!" The nurse huffed, abandoning the wheelchair for the time being, giving him a quick glance as she hurried out of the room.

"I'll be right back, Captain. Stay put." As soon as she left the room he pushed himself up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to pass before getting to his feet.

He closed his eyes trying to fight through the general haze of the Murdockian drug-cocktail to access that oh-so-important part of his brain that provided him his eidetic memory – the part of his mind that supplied him all those foreign languages, endless supply of movie quotes, useless facts and mental maps.

Hannibal always made a point to go over the plan with every member of the team, even when one of them was down for the count.

The day before their mission Hannibal had gathered them around his bedside, placing the maps on his bed tray and using the various assortment of medical miscellanea around them to act as their analogs: Hannibal had been represented by a band-aide, Face a packaged Q-tip and B.A. a small bottle of lotion. When Murdock had complained about the lack of representation Hannibal snorted and looked around the room before grabbing a roll of bandaging tape, placing it on the corner of the map.

B.A. had promptly moved it, far away from the map and with a surprisingly well-balanced mixture of caring and insult told him he'd keep his crazy ass far away, safe and sound in the hospital.

Murdock had listened to the run through as he looked over the map of the region around Camp Casey and the country's northern border – they were working a counter intelligence opp. outside of the Gojang-ri outpost, a mere mile from the North Korean border.

The outpost was located on a small plateau overlooking the Han River, one that connected the two conflicting countries. The OP was 25 miles north of his current location – a lazy flight in normal non-apocalyptic circumstances.

If anyone was going to be able to fly in that it was him; he'd just have to ask the helicopter very, very nicely to not wimp out on him and decide to loose lift or blade integrity Usually, when he used his nice voice, they listened and that's all he really had at this time; that and mad skill.

And when Murdock thought about it, and he often did, it was his job. He was the pilot – he got them out of binds, engaged in aerial combat and did whatever he needed to get his team to safety or to aid whatever plan Hannibal came up with.

But it wasn't only his responsibility as the team's designated escape plan that had him risking life, limb and copter time and time again; it was something much more important to him than any rank or job title could provide …

It was settled, then, typhoon or not he was going to get his team back to safety.

He stood, wincing at the pull at his wrist before promptly pulling the IV out, and grabbing his hat and jacket – he was _never_ going to get the blood out no matter what Face said about the magic of hydrogen peroxide – and stepped into his boots.

He took a deep breath, trying to disregard the pull of his stitches and his generally wobbly legs and peered out into the hallway. Nurse Roberts was busy at the nurse's station, her back turned – it was now or never.

Without further hesitation he moved down the hall, moving around doctors and stretchers.

'Act like you're supposed to be doing what you're doing and no one will question it.'

Face was always eager to share the tricks of his unusual trade and his words echoed in his head as he hastily passed, grateful for the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt and scrub bottoms and not the traditional gown – that would have been awkward and extremely drafty.

He wasn't surprised, really, when he made it to the door – this had worked before, all those years ago in Mexico – or probably would have had he not been stopped by a certain Lieutenant - though he had had a significantly better disguise then. He couldn't even call this a disguise; really, this was Murdock escaping a hospital dressed as Murdock escaping a hospital – lousy costume work.

With a final glance back at the small hospital wing, he silently made his way out the door and almost immediately ate pavement – he had been right before, concerning the wind and it had nearly knocked him on his ass.

This rescue effort was off to a really questionable start.

He steeled himself against the gale and gripped the brim of his hat, pulling it down low in a feeble attempt to keep the rain out of his eyes and hurried across the base. Trucks and uniformed men rushed past him, running to sandbag the weaker sections of the surrounding wall – no one so much as glanced at him in the chaos.

He hobbled over to the hangar, his stitches pulling painfully with each step and scanned the tarmac, scouting out his options.

They had pulled the light-load choppers inside and were currently towing anything with a propeller into the hangar.

He frowned but swallowed his concern – those wouldn't do anyway, they wouldn't be able to maneuver the way he needed in the wind.

Three fighter-jets were lined up, their cabins sealed and their parking blocks wedged tightly under their wheels – anything that couldn't hover was out – his team wouldn't benefit much from an air show and a few flyovers.

He rounded the hanger, hoping the aircraft he had seen there two weeks ago was still on base and was rewarded by the sight of a V-22 Osprey. The tilt rotor mechanism would give him better lift in the unreliable wind currents and greater maneuverability and best yet, its blades were as strong as they came and would be less likely to snap in the wind.

With a final look around he made a mad dash for the Osprey, holding his side and hoping to attract the least attention possible, which seemed rather impossible as he caught a few confused and startled looks.

"Ca-Captain Murdock?" He recognized the voice but couldn't put a name to it so he just played deaf as he unlocked the door and pulled himself painfully inside, "Captain, all birds are grounded, sir!"

Oh good, he could go with the playing dumb act here; always a wise choice. He gestured at his ears as he pulled the helmet over his head, acting as though he couldn't hear the rapidly approaching man.

"Okay, yeah! I'll pick you up some milk on my way back!" He quickly closed the door and began the start up procedure, pushing the craft forward and tilting the rotors completely horizontal to the ground – a moment later he was off the ground leaving behind a rather irate and confused group of flight mechanics.

He cleared the base within a matter of seconds, pushing the Osprey forward and through the storm as quickly as possible – it was slow speeds that made navigating high winds so difficult and he wasn't about to make that rookie mistake.

Rain pelted the windshield and the radio was abnormally silent. Visibility was absolute shit, 10 feet at the most. He would have to fly solely by radar, at least until he arrived at the OP – that's when the real challenge would begin.

He pushed forward and was surprised and a little forlorn to realize how much the small amount of activity had exhausted him; his hands shook and hell, Hannibal was going to kill him because the little wet spot gathering on the front of his shirt meant ripped stitches.

He figured they'd forgive him his moment of stupidity, however, because he was fairly confident they would rather him swoop in unannounced in an Osprey than die in a landslide at some shit outpost.

The Osprey lurched as it was tossed about in the winds, it's frame groaning, the constant change putting pressure on the craft. Despite this, Murdock expertly maintained his heading, keeping an attentive eye on the radar. The Han River had appeared on the right hand corner of the screen, which meant he was approximately five-minutes south east of his team's position.

He descended slightly, getting close enough to make out the tree line. The trees swayed in the blustery weather, some cracking and folding as he flew over. His knee bounced slightly as his mind distracted him with a horrid slew of what-ifs as it took in the watery scene below.

He shook his head and left those thoughts for later, deciding to replace the uncomfortable silence that had been left behind in his head with humming which steadily grew into singing, as it often did, and before he knew it he had a rather impressive version of 'Ride of the Valkyries' going.

Murdock checked the navigation screen; he was in the vicinity, he should be able to see the outpost any second now - he flipped on the bottom spotlights and peered out the window.

Rain skirted through the shafts light, making everything look even hazier than before, but at least his team would be able to see him. He did a loop, searching for the plateau OP, fighting gusts of wind that came up as updrafts from the valley below.

For a frightening moment he thought that perhaps he had gotten it wrong, that his brain had implanted a completely false memory in desperation but then there was a faint dot of light, shimmering in the distance.

Dit dit dit dah dah dah dit dit dit – his mind translated; S-O-S.

Murdock pushed the Osprey forward towards the blinking light, eyes searching frantically to catch sight of just one of his team members so he could figure out how to bring the bird in; the currents were terribly violent at ground level and the last thing he wanted to do was crush or decapitate his team.

He moved the spotlight towards the signal light and released the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Hannibal was waving his arms in the universal 'here-i-am' manner and was standing in front of the collapsed frame of the small outpost, a tree laying across it's roof, half inside the OP.

He couldn't find Face or B.A. and warm panic flourished in his gut.

Hannibal was using hand signals, informing him there were three people –which Murdock found odd -, one injured – Murdock's stomach sank – and then moved on to direct him into the best extraction position.

Murdock squinted at him, wondering why he wasn't just trusting him to bring the Osprey in when he realized they definitely weren't expecting him. He was the roll of tape, banished to the far corners of the hospital bed; he had no business here. He was so getting chewed out for this, but at least he'd get to see the surprise on their faces and that was always entertaining …

He fought to keep the Osprey balanced as a particularly strong current pushed it back and steadily moved forward; he tightened his grip as the chopper continued to buck and slowly moved into position.

When he was confident the Osprey wasn't going to go into some sudden death spasm, throwing him into the ground or back into his team, he opened the back door; immediately the cabin pressure changed, his ears popping and the cold rain quickly covered the floor of the back cargo as the wind swirled around the interior.

He looked back, hands tight on the controls, and waited, staring out into the dark. He managed to tilt the rear back nearly touching the ground as he hovered and it was no small feat. He could feel the winds fighting to bring him down, could hear the groan of metal near the propellers.

A moment later Hannibal and Face appeared, a semi unconscious B.A. dangling between them – they looked up at him and save for the knowing grin on Hannibal's features, B.A.'s hazy look of disbelief and Face's muttering of 'you've got to be shitting me', they were surprisingly accepting – and overwhelmingly relieved - of his cameo to their mission.

Though he was sure they highly disapproved of the fact that he had not only broken out of the hospital but had also stolen a V22 Osprey from the tarmac – something Hannibal would have to somehow talk their way out of (they would end up chalking it up to a drug cocktail gone south in the direction of kleptomania) – the way Face hugged him and the manner in which B.A. did _not _kill him and how Hannibal put an arm around his shoulders as they walked back to the hospital from the tarmac, it was all proof that he had done everything so very right.

Sometimes kleptomania _was_ the answer.

And sure, Hannibal and the doctors had decided to increase his bed rest another week – he had pulled nearly 60% of his stitches and had ruined another great T-shirt– and his new roommate threatened death each time a drawing of a dinosaur or something lewd showed up on his cast, and Face had lectured him like a mother hen about not going out in the rain without a rain jacket and a hole in your gut, but in the end it had all been spectacularly worth it.


	2. Another Shark Week

- Two: Another Shark Week -

_Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear. _

- Ambrose Redmoon

They had been talking about sharks. It was shark week so, naturally, it was that special time of the year in which Murdock talked about nothing but sharks for seven full days.

B.A. indulged because this was also the one time of the year he was inclined to agree with the pilot; sharks were badass motherfuckers.

It was strange how one tended to remember the trivial details that preceded terrifying events. It was the mind's cruelest joke, storing events it deemed traumatic in perfect clarity.

They had just finished their supply run and were driving back to the abandoned military silo they were currently using as their base of command. Murdock had a hand out the window, angling it in the wind and watching as it moved up and down; like a plane in an air current.

"I'm tellin' you, Bosco, the Megaladon is out there, probably down in the Mariana Trench, if I had to give my expert opinion." He had said as he watched the scenery pass by.

"Expert opinion? Then why haven't they found one yet, fool?" Murdock was about to inform the man that only about 5% of the ocean had been explored when he spotted something on the side of the road; a small truck parked behind a large electrical box, which was odd considering they were using an access road and there was nothing around for at least 20 miles – nothing that needed the electricity that thing would provide, at least.

He squinted, not quite trusting the stray vehicle but then again, maybe he was being a bit paranoid. The last time he acted on his paranoia he accidentally stabbed Face with a fork. He didn't want a repeat of that event; Face still complained about the three little scars on the back of his neck.

… but then he spotted a man crouched down by the truck's tires, dressed in a utility worker's uniform; he turned as they approached, something black in his hands.

By the time he realized what he was doing it was too late. He opened his mouth to warn B.A. just as the man tossed something long and black into the road; a spike strip.

B.A. swerved hard to the left but he couldn't clear it in time.

The van's front tires exploded as they hit the strip, the sound akin to a gunshot. Then the back tires went and that's about where it really went to shit.

The van began to roll and Murdock threw his left hand bracing it against the ceiling while his right maintained a death grip on the door handle. He could feel glass biting into his arms and face, could hear the creaking of glass as the windshield cracked, the groan of metal as the van collapsed in on itself - the part of his brain that was struggling to maintain normalcy was reminding him that his fountain coke was sitting in the drink holder and was definitely going to spill.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited – waited for the van to just stop spinning. It was all very disorienting. He had been in his fair share of helicopter and plane crashes before, but this was different. In the previous instances he had been the one in control, could anticipate the way the bird was going to move and he had always been so focused that he rarely found the time to process any fear.

He had never been in a car crash before, or at least not one like this. He felt like he was in a damn washing machine, only he wouldn't walk out of this smelling like apple blossoms or a field of lavender.

The van continued it's dizzying tumble for what seemed like a good hour and finally, with a slow creak, came to a stand still.

Murdock groaned and opened his eyes. He couldn't believe it because, a) he was conscious and, b) they were right side up, as though nothing had happened and that had been some strange stunt of revenge wrought by B.A.

That reminded him …

He lurched forward only to be snapped back into place by the seatbelt, his body aching like a giant bruise and the whiplash already settling in. He fumbled with the locking mechanism, unbuckling after the third try, and leaned over to get a look at B.A.

"B.A – " And really, it came out more like 'ba-ay'; he shook his head, trying to clear the fog but that turned out to be a horrible idea because it made his neck muscles seize up and his head spin faster than one of those teacup rides.

He really needed to go to Disney some time soon … Focus, man, focus!

His vision cleared enough for him to actually comprehend what he was seeing and he frowned.

The big guy wasn't looking so hot.

He had one hell of a laceration on his face, spanning from just above his right brow to his right ear – Murdock winced, that had the potential to leave one serious scar – and he was pretty sure the man's nose was broken.; it was hard to tell from his position but there was enough blood and swelling to support his theory.

His hands, too, were a mess, bloodied and bruised. His right wrist was swollen and both arms were covered in chemical burns all the way to mid forearm; probably from the airbag, he decided. Pesky chemical-filled face pillows.

Murdock's gaze drifted to the steering wheel and holy Sikorsky it was bent, actually bent, the top dipping into a wide 'u.' If the man had gotten away with only broken ribs he would be lucky.

"Boz-co," he slurred. Another concussion no doubt; he seemed to be very prone to those – what had caused the last one? Ah yes, the frying pan to the forehead – for some reason Face thought it was acceptable to throw cast iron frying pans. Who did that? Focus … right. "Boz-co …we're on'a plane! Inta th' blue yond'r we go! C'mon, wak'up!"

Nothing. It had been a valiant effort. An effort worthy of the Queen's most humble thanks … FOCUS! God, he was awful with concussions, couldn't keep a damn thing straight.

Ok, first things second … he reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the little rectangle of hope. Need to get B.A. to safety. That was his main objective.

He held the phone in his hand and his brow furrowed as he tried to remember what to do with it – the buttons lit up, taunting him, waiting for him to make a decision and he wiped at his forehead.

Hannibal. Call Hannibal. But what was his number? How was he supposed to remember his number? They never saved contacts into their phones, it was too risky but hell, he knew it started with a 9 then maybe a 4 and another 9 but after that?

The battery bar was flashing – he didn't have much time. 949. Orange County. Ok, check. 315 … 314? No, 5 …

Movement in the side mirror had him looking up, the phone momentarily forgotten, and he froze.

He didn't know when his brain had decided to just forget important tidbits like 'spike strip' and 'sketchy utility guy', but he certainly didn't appreciate it.

The utility uniform clad man was warily making his way towards the ruined van, a gun in his hands. He motioned towards someone Murdock couldn't see in his mirror and he figured whoever it was, was coming around to B.A.'s side.

He scrambled, searching the van for a weapon, a gun, a sharp piece of metal, anything and damn, it was hard because everything had been tossed around during their tumble across the cement.

Finally, he spotted one, the silver handgun that had been previously stuffed in B.A.'s tool box and was now laying under crumpled metal – he stretched his body painfully into the back of the van and reached.

The man was getting closer and he still didn't know where the other guy was, despite throwing a glance at the rearview.

His fingers pulled at the van floor, trying to gain ground so he could grab the gun but he couldn't squeeze his hand under the small opening in the metal – not in this position.

He could hear the man's boots crunching against glass and torn pavement.

That's the buzzer, folks. Time's up.

He hurried back into his previous position and glanced nervously at B.A. before making a split decision.

Play 'possum. He went limp.

A moment later the man ripped his door open. He felt the man's hand grab at his jacket and he struck, cobra like, reaching out and grabbing the man's arm, the one with the gun and shit, he pulled the trigger - Murdock could feel it skim just past his hip, the bullet digging into the seat.

He thrust the heel of his palm into the man's nose causing him to reel back, his grip on the gun loosening for a moment. It was all Murdock needed; he pulled the gun from his attackers grip and shot.

He didn't even bother waiting to see the man fall to the ground. Instead, he spun around in his seat and took a shot out B.A.'s window, just managing to catch the spray of blood jettisoning from the other attacker's head as his momentum threw him backwards and out of the van.

He landed on the pavement with a sickly thud and remained there, staring up at the sky as he tried to regain his breath.

That had been too close.

"Did'ya see that Bee-aay." He half laughed half gasped ; why was B.A. always unconscious for his Hannibal-like acts of badassery? It just wasn't fair.

He grit his teeth and rolled over, getting to his knees. God was he sore, if he could have he would have just flopped back down onto the warm pavement and laid there.

After a slow and painful process he stood and would have face planted if he hadn't grabbed onto the van's side. This just wasn't B.A.'s day.

The vehicle was destroyed – it was hard to imagine they had been inside of it and actually survived. The back end had nearly collapsed in on itself and the engine block was smashed to disrepair. All four tires were shredded to the rim and the road was littered with bits of metal and plastic, shed from the vehicle like feathers from a bird.

Murdock stepped over the man he had shot; he looked vaguely familiar but he couldn't for the life of him remember why. That didn't matter right now, he needed to get B.A. to safety.; needed to get them out of there because for all he knew more unfriendlies could be on the way.

Finally, he made it to the driver side door and pulled it open.

The man looked even worse up close. The swelling had gotten worse in the small amount of time that had passed and Murdock could tell he wasn't breathing right; his chest rose in a lopsided manner and each breath sounded strained.

He gave the injured man's shoulder a gentle shake.

"B.A., buddy, com'on, rise n' shine." He knew he needed to get his friend to safety but how? The van was wrecked and the man had 230 pounds of muscle on him.

"Ok, ok, no big deal, y' jus' sit tight, dream y'r sweet dreams an' let ol' Murdock handle this." His head was pounding and his vision was unreliable, telescoping every few minutes, but he'd had worse. Oh so he thought, he couldn't really tell.

He scraped a hand through his hair – taking a moment to mourn the missing hat; he hadn't even noticed – and tried to ignore the wet warmth he found there. Later, he could deal with that later.

He tried his phone again and fought the urge to have a tantrum a la Face when a black screen greeted him. It was dead. The small window in which he could have placed a call was gone.

"Ok, WWHD … what would Hannibal do," Hannibal would have seen the spike strip earlier. Hannibal would have charged his phone. Hannibal would throw B.A. onto his back and run them back to their base.

Murdock pushed that rather cynical part of his mind back and eyed the road. Those men had had a car … a truck.

"Be right' back, Boz-co. Don' go an'where." He wagged his finger at the man, in warning, and pushed himself off the side of the van, peering down the road. His eyes followed the wreckage trail to the spike strip and then to the left where the truck was still parked. Like the pot of gold at the end of some twisted debris rainbow.

He followed the trail and tire marks, hobbling painfully and trying to ignore the bright splotches of red he was leaving on the pavement.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming … Ok, so he wasn't swimming but the concept was the same.

Finally he made it to the truck – the small effort was enough to soak his t-shirt in sweat and had him panting and wheezing. He opened the door and found to his incredible relief that the keys were in the ignition.

He pulled himself into the driver's seat and turned the ignition. It started. Okay, now he was getting somewhere. He threw the car into drive and rolled slowly to the wrecked van. Driving was going to be an issue – the road wobbled and twisted but he'd just have to make do.

He stopped next to B.A.'s door, rounding the vehicle and opening the passenger side door. He quickly checked the man again, looking for any abnormalities around the neck because hell, he would happily allow B.A. to murder him, slowly, if he caused any irreversible damage by moving him.

'Never, ever move an injured man with suspected back injury unless not doing so would result in further injury or death …' his Ranger training echoed in the back of his mind.

If the conditions had been optimal he wouldn't even consider touching B.A. but unfortunately, that wasn't the case. He had told Hannibal they would be back between noon and … tomorrow night … they couldn't just sit around and wait for them to come looking.

Now to get the larger man inside the vehicle.

Murdock huffed; there was no time to be delicate about this.

Manhandling it is.

"Ok, big'uy, if y'r gonna wake up, now's the time." Silence. "Alrighty then."

Murdock leaned B.A. forward as best he could and gingerly pulled his right arm towards him, mindful of the swollen wrist, and with a heave pulled the large man towards him. He paused; steeling his muscles and giving a heavy exhale, before pulling the man onto his shoulder, bending him at the waist.

He groaned and was pretty sure he almost went down, his knees actually shaking as he tried to shift the man's weight. What a sight this must be …

"Light as a feather … mind o'er matter …" He murmured as he took a shaky step to the side. He turned slowly, leaning away from the van and slowly crossed the gap between the two vehicles.

He made it to the open door and deposited the man, as slowly as his quaking muscles would allow, into the seat. There was blood on his shoulder, no doubt from B.A.'s still oozing head would; he had to do something about that.

He quickly checked the back of the truck they were about to 'commandeer' and gave a breath of thanks when he found, among other things, a few rags and a roll of duck tape. It would have to do.

He made a quick bandage and sure it looked a little silly and B.A. would complain about using duck tape on his head but it was applying pressure and helping stem the bleeding. He patted the man on the shoulder, lightly and turned away.

Murdock's vision wavered for a minute and he held onto the truck. Time to get this horse and pony show on the road … does that make me the pony? FOCUS.

He crawled into the driver's seat and started the engine.

He could drive to a hospital back in La Mesa; a two hour ride from where they were. Or, he could head towards the silo, which was no more than a half hour from their position. Approximately.

"Walker, what's the status on Baracus and Murdock." He froze as a crackling voice filled the truck, coming from the CB mounted on the dashboard.

He recognized that voice – the man they were working to help. Fuck. Effin' Fuck.

If that wasn't reason to get hauling then he didn't know what was. He couldn't risk a two-hour ride back with people looking for them. Ignoring the continued calls over the radio, he pulled away, tires screeching as he burned rubber.

Five minutes into the drive there was a groan from the passenger seat and Murdock could have wet himself in relief.

"B.A.," the man's eyelids fluttered briefly, as though he were fighting to achieve consciousness. Maybe he needed assistance. "B.A … Beee-ayee ….. B.A. B.A. B.A. –"

"Ugh, wha' the hell, man." He rasped as a hand moved stiffly to his head; Murdock sighed in absolute relief and then grabbed the other man's exploring hand and with relative ease pushed it back into his lap.

"Just relax, big guy. Try not t' move too much." Murdock eyes darted between the road and his passenger. He didn't like the unhealthy sheen of the man's skin, the dark shadows under his eyes; he bit his lip wondering if he had made things worse by moving him, what if he had a back injury or internal injuries?

Murdock gripped the steering wheel tight enough that the leather groaned under his fingers. They could always fly him somewhere if it was really bad –

"I know 'm hallucinating, 'cause there 's no way you're driving my van." B.A. said weakly, finishing the sentence with a groan as he watched Murdock from his peripheral vision; there was the clear glassiness of a concussion and he looked as though he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"This ain't y'r van, B.A." Murdock said with a nervous smile; it didn't even look close to his van.

B.A. blinked slowly and Murdock swallowed his building anxiety; what if he had seriously hurt his friend?

"Wha' happened?" He asked simply as his hand reached up again to touch his forehead. Again, Murdock pushed the hand down.

"We got 'n an itty, bitty crash. Nothin' too bad. Nothin' to fret y'r pretty lil' head over." Ladies and Gentlemen, the understatement of the week.

B.A. grunted and winced, looking as though he were searching for the memory. He looked to Murdock again, his eyes full of – what was it – disappointment?

"Was I drivin'?" Murdock swallowed and glanced sideways. All this looking back and forth wasn't helping his dizziness but that look B.A. was giving him …

"Uh – yeah, but it wasn't y'r fault – " B.A. was still staring at him, his eyes somewhat unfocused. Finally, the man turned away with a small shake of his head.

"You look like shit." There he is. He was probably right, too. He could feel the scrapes on his face, the burning edges of cuts and the itchy pull of dried blood and his head felt as though an angry gorilla was pounding on the walls of his skull. He imagined B.A. felt the same; at least the man seemed to be thinking a bit more clearly.

"How're you feelin'. Y' got a good 'ol knock t' the noggin." B.A. looked as though he were considering the question and winced as he stared down at his wrists. "B.A.?"

B.A. was looked over at him again and blinked slowly.

"Murdock? What happened?"

Murdock's stomach sank as he explained it again. This time B.A. laughed before turning away to look out the window. The third time he got angry and then after five minutes of silence B.A.'s head was nodding and the pilot was beginning to panic slightly.

"No, no, this is no time f'r a nap, Bosco," He snapped his fingers in front of the man's face to no avail; he had to take several deep breaths to avoid seriously freaking the fuck out.

He pressed the gas down as far as it would go.

Twenty heart pounding, dizzying as hell minutes later he pulled in behind the abandoned military silo, kicking up dust and gravel as he slammed the breaks.

The back of the military bunker was open and he could see Hannibal and Face looking at them, hunched over a table. They seemed to understand that something was very wrong, that they weren't in the vehicle they had left in and that it appeared to be Murdock in the driver's seat because they sure came running.

Murdock flung the door open and with a yelp, fell sideways to the ground as he attempted to step out a bit too quickly.

"What – what the hell happened?" Face said as he rushed to pick the pilot up from the ground.

He pushed past Face, or at least tried to; he needed to get to B.A.; to explain to them that they needed to get help, that something wasn't right with the man.

Whatever he said it seemed to have worked as he stumbled to the passenger door with Face. Hannibal was already there and he looked concerned as he checked the unconscious man.

Murdock couldn't quite follow what they were saying - Face was gesturing at the vast nothingness around them and Hannibal was checking B.A.'s pupils – he was too busy trying to ignore the whooshing in his ears as his heart pounded and the hundred and one worst case scenarios that made their way through his head like the aggravating opening menu screen to a DVD repeating over and over and over again because the watcher had fallen asleep and -

"Murdock. Murdock, look at me." The pilot looked numbly over at Face, his mouth dry and his throat tight. The man put his hands on his face and he flinched. "Murdock, listen. We need to get B.A. to the hospital and we need you to fly us there, buddy. Do you think you can do that?"

Paralysis. Brain Damage. Stroke. And it would all be your fault. Should have seen that spike strip sooner. Shouldn't have moved him. Should have remembered the damn number. Should be more like Hannibal. Should BE Hannibal …

He must have nodded yes because Face had pulled his arm around his shoulder and was leading him towards the helicopter they had liberated from Orange Country Charters.

Hannibal was already waiting for them, stolen truck parked next to the chopper.

"Are you sure you can do this, Captain?" Hannibal asked in the way that made it clear that there was no real option; he wasn't about to kill his pilot by forcing him to fly in his state but they had little choice.

"Yessir." He had flown worse off in Iraq and for reasons less pressing than the current state of his friend; he'd do anything for his team. This was a no brainer.

Face and Hannibal lifted B.A. into the bird and a moment later they were off the ground, a little wobbly at first, but it was something.

The flight took twenty minutes. They crossed the Mexican border, flying low and fast and landing on the roof helicopter pad of Hospital General de Mexicali – they all would have preferred a hospital in California but showing up on the rooftop of a hospital with stolen chopper was probably a poor choice – the doctors of Mexicali did not seem to mind as Hannibal passed them a healthy wad of American currency - and a three hour drive had not been an option.

They pulled B.A. away in a stretcher that belonged in the 70's and Murdock felt numb. He took a step forward, hardly aware of Face standing beside him, saying something, grabbing his shoulder and then the ground getting way too friendly, rushing towards him.

He didn't remember anything after that.

He woke up the next day in a panic. It had taken Face a good half hour to convince him that B.A. wasn't dead; that he hadn't killed him, that the man was in recovery and they repeated the process every two hours during his concussion checks.

He slept for another full day after he was considered in the clear and wouldn't be dropping off into a coma.

Four days after that he was sitting at B.A.'s bedside, feet propped up on the end of the lumpy hospital bed. He scratched at the bandage at his hairline and scrunched his nose at the tight pull of the butterfly clips that held his brow and the bridge of his nose closed.

Murdock glanced over at his friend who was currently digging into the interesting hospital meal - something with tortilla and maybe rice, a gray blob of … meat? – and staring at the small television in front of him.

It had been close.

B.A. had fractured his skull and the pressure it had put on his brain was enough to require surgery. Hannibal had told him they had made it just in time, that had Murdock waited for them at the van, had they not flown …

" … but the odds of getting attacked by a shark are small, about 1 in 1.8 million. Compare that to the chances of dying in a plane crash, 1 in 66,000 and you can see …"

"You hear that, fool, I'd rather take my chances with a damn shark than in a plane with you."

Murdock never thought he'd miss that oh so gentle ribbing so much. The three days he had waited for B.A. to wake up were some of the longest he had ever experienced. They had been waiting to see if there would be any lasting damage, if he had still had full control, physically and mentally …

B.A. could call him whatever he wanted, as far as he was concerned, as long as he was okay.

"What about a plane crash into shark infested waters?" Murdock grinned as B.A. shot him a look of absolute annoyance and disbelief.

"What about it? Man, you are crazy …" B.A. said it in a way that Murdock would almost dare to call 'fondly.'

" … in 1996 when the Boeing 757 went down off the coast of Puerto Rico into shark infested waters …"

B.A. coughed and sputtered.

Murdock had never been more thankful for another shark week.


	3. Always Stick to the Plan

- Three: Always Stick to the Plan -

_A hero has faced it all: he need not be undefeated, but he must be undaunted. _

- Andrew Bernstein

He knew he shouldn't blame himself - that he wasn't the one who had opened fire on the propellers of their plane, causing it to burst into flames, and thus rendering the craft useless – but he couldn't help but let the guilt settle into his stomach like a stone.

He knew that Hannibal wouldn't want him to shoulder any guilt over their current predicament but in the end he had been the one to crash the plane. It had been inevitable but still; he should have dipped when he ducked, zigged when he zagged.

How could he forget the cardinal rules of defensive flying? Dodge, dip, dive, duck, and dodge. Or was that dodgeball? It didn't matter – somewhere he made the wrong decision and now they were paying for it.

So much for getting out of Panama without a hitch.

They had barely made it off the tarmac when there was that sound, the thump thump thump of bullet vs. aircraft and then he lost the right propeller. The left followed but a moment later.

He had made the best of the emergency landing, finding a relatively flat clearing and putting the bird down with practiced ease. That hadn't been the problem. The real problem began when they had taken to the woods, the drug-runner's dogs at their heels.

Within minutes they were overrun, surrounded by very angry men with guns, rabid looking hounds and a three Jeep blockade.

"Steady, Murdock." Hannibal muttered as he held his hands up in the universal position of surrender. Murdock mirrored his actions and managed to flinch only slightly when one of the men came up behind him and patted him down.

"Steady as a rock, Bossman." That earned him a good, hard smack on the back of the head before his hands were pulled together roughly in front of him.

"Cállate!" A man with the AK-47 shouted as he forced the pilot to his knees. "Déjalo para el jefe."

Save it for the Boss. That was never a good thing.

The sound of a car being slammed into park echoed across the clearing and Murdock looked over to see another Jeep. A man stepped out, a cigar in his mouth, a CZ 75b in his right hand and aviators set low on his nose.

A regular Panamanian Hannibal.

"Marquez." Hannibal greeted, standing tall and looking the least bit intimidated.

"You know my name but I am afraid I cannot return the cordiality. I would like to know the name of the man who has caused me such – aggravation."

"Smith." Hannibal offered as though he was sharing formalities over a damn cup of tea.

"Smith." Marquez tooth a deep puff from his cigar, blowing the smoke into the Colonel's face before delivering a powerful punch to the gut, causing the man to fold over slightly. "Did you really think I'd let you burn my crops and then get away with my money?"

Hannibal coughed and gave a chuckle as he straightened himself.

"Well, you do have a lot of holes in your security."

"Holes." Marquez laughed, "If I do they were not big enough for you to slip through."

Marquez fingered the radio on his belt before turning away from Hannibal to face Murdock.

"Which reminds me, you crashed my plane." He said, tipping Murdock's hat from his head with the barrel of his gun, crouching down to look the pilot in the eye. "I liked that plane."

"Not as much as I liked watching it burn." He said with a gleam in his eye, even though it wasn't entirely true because he never liked to see a bird go down. Marquez nodded stiffly before standing and Murdock knew he was in for it when the man grabbed the collar of his jacket and reeled his fist back.

He was on the ground before he could feel any semblance of fear over the fact that the man was wearing some very serious bling on his punching fist.

After being lifted back to his feet and waiting for his ears to stop ringing and for this pretty little blue birds to stop circling his head he tuned back into the heated monologue Marquez was currently giving. He looked over at Hannibal who gave him a questioning look, the elegant raise of an eyebrow, and Murdock nodded; it was a hell of a punch but his brain was no more scrambled than usual.

The radio at Marquez's hip crackled.

"Registramos el avión. El dinero, los documentos … no estaban allí." Marquez frowned and gripped the radio, the plastic creaking.

We searched the plane … the money, the documents they weren't there.

Murdock grinned and risked a glance towards Hannibal and hell, the man had a gleam in his eye.

They watched, strangely satisfied, as Marquez paced for a moment and dragged a hand over his mouth before turning to Hannibal.

"Very good. Very good." He laughed, a somewhat hysterical thing. He nodded to himself, as though he were considering his next move and then pushed his gun in front of Hannibal's face. "Where is my money? Where is my fucking money?"

"Like I said. Holes." Hannibal said and Murdock couldn't help but feel it was an absolute travesty that the man didn't have a cigar in his mouth. It would have completed the image of badassery that was Hannibal Smith.

Marquez pressed the gun against Hannibal's forehead and leaned in.

"You are going to tell me where it is, Smith. I will break you down." Hannibal didn't so much as flinch; greater men had threatened Hannibal with less of a response.

"Bien." He said and Murdock had a feeling the situation was far from 'bien.' Mal. That was the word the man had to have meant. He needed to school this man in Spanish.

"Ramos, Hierra." He motioned towards two of his men with his pistol, "Kill the pilot."

Hannibal stepped forward, his expression dangerous, but before anything could be done, Murdock felt those hands grabbing at him again, this time pulling him away from Hannibal and pushing him towards the forest's edge.

"Hannibal!" He kicked out, bucked, did everything he could to get away but it was no use. The men laughed and climbed back into their Jeeps – one being left behind for the two men of execution duty.

The last thing he heard before the men pulled away, Hannibal in tow, was the Colonel's confident tone.

"Stick to the plan, Murdock."

* * *

Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. His mind played the words over like a mantra. Trust Hannibal. Stick to the plan.

As much as he wanted to understand what Hannibal meant, he was struggling. Being lead into the woods hadn't been apart of the plan. Nor had crashing the plane. So how the hell was he supposed to stick to the damn plan?

Ramos pushed his gun into his back, urging him forward.

Murdock ran 'the Plan' over in his head. Break into the compound. Check. Steal lots and lots of green. Check. Put said green in the van they had secured in town. Check. Split up. B.A. and Face heading through the jungle; himself and Hannibal taking to the skies. Check. Fly off into the sunset proudly sporting his new Panama hat and sipping at a cold Seco Herreano … Anti-Check.

"Vayas!" The man gave him a hard shove; he hadn't realized he had stopped.

"Ok, ok – no tienes que ponerte avasallador …" No need to get pushy. He said in his perfect, Panamanian accent. He went as slowly as possible, trying to conserve as much time as possible to figure out how to stick to the plan. They pushed him again – well that wasn't working. Next he went for the old shoelace stall.

"Hey, hey! Qué haces!" Ramos pointed his gun in the pilot's face and Murdock gave a small smile as he fumbled with the laces. It was a lot harder with your hands tied.

"Uno momento … tengo que amarrarme los zapatos …" I need to tie my shoes.

Brilliant, in his humble opinion.

Ramos looked angry and made a move to grab his jacket but Hierra stopped him with a laugh.

"Está loco, hombre." They laughed as he sung under his breath.

"…you go over and under, left to right" Ok. So clearly this wasn't part of the plan. So that meant he'd have to go back to basics – what were the rudimentary guidelines of one of Hannibal's plans? " …loop de loop and hold 'em tight."

"…like bunny ears or a Christmas bow …" The Plan always involved a beginning – infiltration - a middle – the objective – and an end – the grand escape. The first two were accounted for so it was the last thing that was the problem. Ok. Rules for Escape … " …lace 'em up and you're ready to go …"

"take your loop de loop and pull …" Rules of the Escape. Stay alive. Ok, so far so good. No man gets left behind. Well, shoot. Get out of Dodge (in style). Always stay one step ahead. Alright. So he was one for four. Not so great. He just had to correct those three things and he'd be golden. " …and now you're shoes are lookin' cool."

Stick to the Plan. The biggest Plan of all – the name of the game was survival and the tagline was search and rescue: Panama edition.

"Terminaste?" The man, Hierra, gave a mocking laugh while Ramos muttered words like 'loco' and 'idiota' and 'débil', and he pulled at Murdock's sleeve.

Rule One. Stay Alive. He could hear Hannibal's voice as clear as though he were right there with him, squatting down next to him, that trademark cigar in his mouth.

Murdock grinned.

"Me oyes? Levantate!" Ramos pulled harder, shirking the gun to put both hands on the pilot.

Big mistake, the Hannibal-esque voice said. Yep, Murdock agreed as he pushed backwards, using the man's momentum against him and slamming his elbow into the man's throat; he went down with a choke and a gag.

Hierra shouted and lifted his menacing AK-47; Murdock rushed forwards, grabbing the barrel of the gun, pushing it away; his flesh burned as the man fired, the barrel burning hot.

Regardless, he held on and pulled the barrel back. The man lurching forward, his groin making impact with Murdock's boot; needless to say he crumpled to the ground.

Murdock stumbled, trying to keep a hold of the gun with his bound hands. He landed on his back, gun in hand and made it just in time to see Ramos getting to his feet, groping the forest floor for his gun.

"Parar!" Stop. Murdock shouted as he kicked at the ground, trying to get to his feet. "Te dispararé!" I'll shoot.

The man ignored him as he got a hold of his gun. He raised the weapon but Murdock was expecting it; he fired a single shot and could only hope he was far away enough that no one could hear it.

Behind him, Hierra groaned, attempting to stand.

"Quedate quieto." Don't move. Murdock pointed the gun in the man's face and when it seemed like he was going to comply he motioned for him to turn around and roll onto his stomach, "Tumbate boca abajo ..."

Hierra did as he said and Murdock dug his knee into the man's back before putting the gun down. He then made a grab for the buck knife attached to the man's belt and made quick work of the ropes.

He slid the sheathed knife into his pocket and grabbed the gun once again. Now what to do with Hierra …

Ramos was dead but that had been a case of clear self-defense. Hierra on the other hand … they didn't kill in cold blood.

He pulled the man's hands behind his back and did his best with the rope he had cut from his own wrists. I wasn't the best knot but it would hold. He then moved to the man's feet, removing his boots, stripping the laces and unceremoniously tossing the boots deep into the surrounding jungle. He tied the laces around the man's ankles and stood back, pleased with his work.

Now for the finishing touch. He didn't really enjoy inflicting pain; that was more B.A.'s area of expertise, but it had to be done. He slammed the butt of the AK into the back of the man's head.

Never Leave a Man Behind. Rescue mission commence.

He grabbed the Ramos' AK and slung it around his shoulder. Two AKs and a buck knife. Not bad.

He took off the way they had come, boots sloshing as it began to rain. He didn't spend a lot of time on the ground, running the finer details of the missions with the rest of the team but that didn't mean he wasn't capable of it. His Ranger training leaked through, up from his subconscious and he felt wild and feral as the cool rain pelted against his skin and the adrenaline rushed through his veins.

He made it to the truck and carefully scanned the area, the AK held out in front of him. He jumped into the car and squinted against the rain; he had to get to the compound before the rain washed away the tire tracks.

Lucky for him they had crashed a short ten minutes from the compound. He stopped the truck, just out of view at the forests edge, hidden behind the thick vegetation, and silently stepped out.

He peered through the foliage at the five-foot, adobe wall – within the walls was a large central courtyard. Murdock could just see the top of the jeeps parked outside the compound's walls, positioned by the buildings only entrance.

Well that made planning easier – that was a clear route to avoid.

He continued his survey thankful for their initial assault on the compound. He knew that along the western wall was a long, two storied building, the first floor open-aired and supported by white pillars, the walls colored a bright yellow, looking akin to a Panamanian retreat.

Murdock could hear the dogs and the clinking of chains; he remembered seeing them, stationed in the center of the courtyard, being kept as sentries.

The second story was closed off, a single door leading to it's interior and a single skylight marked the roof. That was Marquez's quarters. Murdock crawled on top of the jeep and spotted two men guarding the door to the man's quarters.

That was where they were keeping Hannibal.

He had to make a plan and quick; he didn't know how long they would decide to keep him alive.

'So, what's the plan?' The Hannibal that lived inside his head, asked.

Murdock's keen eyes scanned the compound; rushing in all silly-nilly wouldn't work. Nor would just trying to sneak in. What he needed was a distraction. His eyes covered every inch of the compound and within seconds he found what he was looking for and smiled, singing in his best Jamaican patois.

"Ganja babe, ma sweet ganja babe, com'a wake ma body 'n take ma mind away …"

Everyt'in was gonna be a'iry.

* * *

Murdock shook his head and coughed as he slipped back over the wall. Turns out mass quantities of marijuana burned very, very quickly.

* * *

Hannibal's head reeled to the side as Marquez landed another blow to his jaw. His mouth filled with blood and he spit; damn brass knuckles.

"I will ask you again. Where are my documents? … Where. Is. My. Money?" Marquez pushed his pistol into Hannibal's left kneecap as he leaned forward, grabbing at the front of the man's shirt.

Hannibal chuckled. The man had already put a neat little hole in his right thigh; the blood dribbled into a warm pool on the chair, staining the wood and carpet below. What was it about criminals that made them think that threatening the same injury over and over again while shouting in their captor's face was so effective? No imagination.

"Your money, the documents – they are very, very far away." Hannibal grunted as the man grabbed his throat while simultaneously digging the gun deeper above his knee.

"You are lying. My men have searched and blocked off every road, have seen every inch of the surrounding jungle," Marquez's grip on his neck increased but Hannibal's gaze didn't waver, "this means you had help; I will find the other members of your team. I will hunt them down. I will kill them."

Hannibal knew Marquez hadn't seen, hadn't even known that B.A. and Face had been involved; that was the point of burning the crops and making such a loud and obvious exit by plane – to provide cover.

If he truly had known, he would have intercepted them.

No. B.A. and Face were long gone by now – if Hannibal's calculations were correct they should be somewhere in Costa Rica by now. Hannibal grinned. Pura Vida.

"Now that is highly unlikely." Marquez looked at him, eyes darting back and forth and sweat collecting on his upper lip. His rage was palpable.

"Is it? I killed your pilot." Hannibal inhaled, taking in the rather pungent aroma that was beginning to drift into the room.

"Are you sure about that, Marquez?" Confusion flashed across the man's features for a brief second; then he turned his head to the side sniffing the air.

"No, no, no, no –" Hannibal watched as Marquez rushed towards one of the windows, looking out towards the single, humid room he kept his product.

"Aya! Fuego, el producto está ardiendo! Vaya, vaya!" Hannibal could hear the shouts from below and see the flickering of fire against the window despite the rain.

He grinned. His pilot, the Ace in the hole …

"No, no, what is this?" Marquez slammed his fist against his desk before gripping the sides and flipping it over. "What the hell is this!"

The man looked dangerously unhinged; just what they needed. He would be prone to mistakes.

Hannibal watched carefully, ignoring the pain in his ribs and the ache in the general area of his face as he worked on the handcuffs on his wrists.

His eyes followed Marquez as he paced for a moment, running his hand across his mouth. He caught Hannibal's gaze and pointed at him with a semi-hysterical laugh.

"You, you are very good at what you do." Lightning flashed and Hannibal's eyes just barely caught the shadow it cast on the floor.

Marquez lifted his gun, pointing it at Hannibal's head.

"But I –" He clicked the hammer back, his gaze crazed and glossy, "I am better."

Above them came a crack and a thick drop of water his Marquez on the cheek.

"Qué es eso-" The Panamanian rubbed at his cheek and looked up.

* * *

Murdock pulled himself onto the roof of the Jefe's quarters, ignoring the barbed wire pulling at his cargos and the thorny vines that traced the walls. The air smelled unusually pungent - the sweet smell of success – and the dogs had begun barking followed by a chorus of frantic, panicked shouts.

He crouched, careful to stay out of view from the men below, and walked across the slick adobe roof tiling. He made it to the first of three skylights – leave it to a drug runner to shirk security for luxury - and peered inside.

A fancy looking carpet, a leather chair, a small side table, a humidor … no Hannibal.

He moved silently to the second one. ¡Bingo!

They were nearly directly underneath him; Murdock leaned against the glass, trying to get a better look at Hannibal as Marquez stormed away to look out one of the large villa windows. Even from his position he could see the blood spotting Hannibal's shirt, the weeping wound above his right knee and the tight and pained way he held himself.

Hannibal was never one to let others know he might feel something as ridiculous as pain – he could even recall a time in which the man had claimed, in all seriousness, that he never went to the bathroom – but the pilot had become very good at interpreting the subtle tells of the older man's body.

Murdock grabbed the knife from his pocket and put it between his teeth as he pulled one of the AK-47s in front of him. Then he thought better of it and put the knife back in his pocket – Rambo he was not.

Marquez whipped around, was shouting and there was the loud boom of lightening. Murdock leaned backwards preparing to stand when there was a loud crack. He looked down to see the window spider veining under his elbow, rain gathering in the cracks.

He looked down and right into the eyes of Marquez. The man's eyes widened and Murdock swiftly got to his feet as the man aimed upwards at him; he just barely got out of the way as the glass shattered and he felt something whizz by his face.

There was the sound of scuffling and he gave a quick look below just in time to see Hannibal grab at the man's wrist, handcuffs dangling from one wrist.

Into the fray.

He jumped down and landed with a crunch, boots crushing glass, rolling to the side as to avoid destroying his knees – Hannibal had just completed a vicious elbow to the man's nose and then gave a quick punch to the back of the Marquez's elbow. With a crack and a howl Marquez dropped his gun.

Not even blood loss and a concussion could keep Hannibal from dominating in a good old match of fisticuffs.

The door to Marquez's quarters burst open to reveal the two guards he had seen earlier and Murdock turned reflexively, firing a short volley, and the two men dropped to the ground before they even had a chance to raise their weapons.

Someone will have heard all this gunfire by now.

Rule Three. Get out of Dodge.

Murdock rushed to Hannibal's side – the man had picked up Marquez's CZ and was checking the magazine. He was pale and was doing his best to keep weight off his injured leg.

"Hey, Boss. Thought I'd drop in and say 'hola'." The pilot said as he stepped over the writhing drug lord. He steadied the man as he began to sway slightly and handed him one of the AKs. "And look, I brought you a present. Got it on sale and everything."

"Knew I could count on you, Captain." Hannibal laughed heartily.

"You." Marquez grunted from his place on the floor. "You are supposed to be dead."

"Yeah, your boys fell for the old untied shoelace trick –" Marquez could only blink at this.

"I - I will kill you myself." Murdock merely gave the man a winning smile.

Hannibal patted Murdock on the shoulder as the pilot moved away, intent on finding something to bind the man with.

"You know Marquez, I'm starting to think you're all bark." Murdock returned with a few strips of cloth he had liberated from a rather expensive looking set of linens and roughly tied the man's wrists together, ignoring the clearly broken arm. He then gagged the man for good measure.

"And I wasn't kidding before, regarding the holes." Hannibal glanced up at the skylight in the ceiling, now open to the elements. He gave the man's cheek a pat and repositioned the AK-47, holding it in one arm, a strap around his shoulder.

The world outside had turned a colorful blend of red and orange and yellow; the roar of fire was growing louder despite the light rain. It didn't hurt that the majority of the lower level consisted of dry-storage rooms; the timber had taken to the flames like a sponge to water.

"I think that's our cue, Captain." Murdock crouched down made quick work of Hannibal's wound, tying what was left of the linen around his thigh, as the man leaned a hand against his back for support, "And I loved the entrance."

Murdock pulled the man's right arm over his shoulder and held up a pair of keys with a grin.

"Wait 'till you see the exit."

* * *

It turned out that burning that incredible amount of marijuana had been a fantastic idea because the remaining men hardly realized they were making their escape until they were actually inside the gorgeous 1939 Fiat - further evidence that Marquez was far to into outward appearances to run a truly efficient and sensible operation.

Hell, he was pretty sure even the damn dogs were high because they hadn't so much as looked at them when they ran by.

Murdock drove right through the gates, kicking up dust as Hannibal turned to face the rear, AK in hand. Murdock watched in the rearview mirror as two Jeeps pulled out from the compound, speeding to catch up. They didn't have a chance. With a few quick shots Hannibal took out the tires, sending one into a murderous roll and the other crashing into the wreckage – a perfect little roadblock.

Hannibal turned back, AK in his lap and a grin on his face.

"Beautiful, Captain, just beautiful." Murdock grinned and dug into his pocket – now for the pièce de résistance.

He pulled out a cigar, stolen from Marquez's humidor as an afterthought, and handed it and the very expensive lighter (also stolen) to the Colonel.

Hannibal grinned as he plucked the cigar and lighter from his pilot.

"You really outdid yourself, Murdock." He said in that fatherly way that almost made him forget their lives were a complete mess.

"You know what, Boss?" Murdock smirked as Hannibal looked over at him, cigar placed firmly between his teeth, "I love it when a plan comes together."


	4. Just Like Die Hard

- Four: Just Like Die Hard -

_A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer._

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

She screwed up somewhere, had gotten sloppy – maybe back in Burgas or Yambol – she couldn't be sure. It didn't matter where, someone had seen her associating with one of the members of the A-Team, most likely Face, and had made the connection.

Once that connection had been made it was only a matter of time. And as with all deployments abroad, things weren't as tightly commanded as they needed to be. Things slipped through cracks and it really was inevitable – she traveled between Novo Selo Range and Graf Ignatievo on a weekly basis; an ambush was inevitable.

Within a month of her last contact with Face the time came; her convoy was blown clean off the road.

Apparently Smith and his team hadn't been playing nice with the Bosnian-Croat mafia – something about intercepting a human trafficking ring in Bihac, which of course she knew about because she was the one who had provided the intel.

She was glad to hear about their apparent success – though she would have preferred to here it from Face or even Hannibal – but she just hated playing the part of bait.

On day – what was it, six? - the perimeter alarms were tripped followed by five – yes, FIVE – explosions.

She knew that at any moment now her captors would be coming to check on her.

She waited, her foot tapping against the concrete floor - she had known, as soon as the first alarm sounded, that Smith's - Face's - team was coming for her.

But hell, way to make an entrance – how could she expect anything less …

There was the noisy rattle of gunshots and shouting in the hallway and she pulled at the thick ropes that held her to the chair.

"Come on, boys …"

Finally, the sound of someone clambering through the vents – very loudly – echoed through the ceiling. Then came the clatter of the grate as it fell to the floor, followed by the heavy stomp of boots.

"What took you so long, jesus, Face," Charrisa hissed into the dark as strong hands pulled at the knots around her wrists, the action chafing her already damaged and bloodied skin, "cutting it a bit close, aren't you?"

Before Face could respond, she stood from the uncomfortable wooden chair, ignoring the stabbing pain in her ankle, and spun around, planting a kiss on his lips.

Her brow furrowed. Face's usual cocky enthusiasm was absent from their kiss; if anything his lips were stiff. She felt something brush her head, an annoying tickle – almost like the brim of a hat – oh fuck.

"Captain!" She pulled back, nearly sending herself to the floor as she stumbled into the chair. Her ankle twisted painfully and she felt the Captain's hand clasp her upper arm, stopping her fall.

"Er – uh, Face was otherwise engaged and uh – I swear I won't say anything." He said stumbling over his words as a blush crept onto his features – he could just barely make out her face and she looked about as surprised as he felt.

"That's – fine, Captain. Do you," She wasn't one to be taken back by shock but she was finding it hard to regain her bearings. She had had very limited contact with the pilot – the last time she had seen him was on a tarmac in Phoenix, he had been testing the rotors of a single engine plane, a parachute pack on his back, while singing 'Leaving on a Jet Plane.' They still hadn't made it past the obligatory 'I-acknowledge-you-exist' nod so this was a huge leap when it came to greetings, "Do you have an escape plan?"

He pulled at the brim of his hat and gave her a nervous smile. Best to just act like that extremely awkward moment hadn't happened at all.

"No, not really, that's more Hannibal's thing, Face was commin' for ya but like I said, he got held up, so here I am" He said as if it were no big thing – she huffed, ready to release a wave of incredulity, when he grabbed her hand and placed a gun in her open palm, "oh, and I brought you this."

A SIG Sauer. She checked the magazine before clicking it back in place, satisfied with the full clip, and racked the slide.

She groaned and shifted her position again, trying to keep the weight of her left ankle, and watched as the pilot crossed the room and inspected the door. His hands traced the inside and he gave a small huff – no handles, no screws, nothing – steel through and through.

"Looks like we're goin' back the way I came in." He grinned, despite the fact she probably couldn't see it. "Die Hard style."

"The vents." She said dryly. This had quickly gone up to #1 on her list of bizarre, fucked up rescues. "Back through the vents."

"Yep, and let me tell you," he picked up the grate, eyeing it for a second before tossing it to the side and looking up into the hole in the ceiling, "those air vents – not as big or quiet as in the movies and hotter than Texas in July."

She was going to kill Face. He was entrusting her survival to him, to – to Murdock? To someone who was actually, 100% certifiably insane?

She sighed. She didn't exactly have a say in the matter.

Sosa made her way warily over to where the pilot had taken a knee, his hands linked, ready to boost her up.

""S your leg there gonna be ok?" He gestured at her ankle and she gave a curt nod, before tentatively putting her hand on his shoulder and her right boot into his hands.

"Ready?" She nodded again and with surprising ease, he hoisted her up into the duct. She hadn't been expecting that sort of strength from the pilot, though there was no real reason she shouldn't – the man was a Ranger. There was even hearsay that he was ex-CIA, but she wasn't inclined to believe hearsay.

She grabbed the sides, clenching her eyes closed as her tired body protested the awkward movement.

"Just a second, Captain." She muttered as she tried to catch her breath. She was dehydrated, hungry, injured and seriously sleep deprived – she wasn't quite up to climbing into air vents so soon.

She felt his grip tighten around her legs, supporting her as she gathered her strength.

"Take your time. Relax. Don't do it." Sosa squinted in slight confusion as the man addressed her, his accent lilting slightly; what the hell was he talking about … "When you want to go to it."

Oh. Right. Of course.

She was about to say something, imploring him to try and take this somewhat seriously, when she heard a worrying, 'uh-oh' from below.

"Wh-"

"Sorry, Cap, time's up!" There was a bang and what sounded like 'stoj!' and before she could protest the pilot pushed her the rest of the way up, the sound of gunshots causing her to instinctively tuck her legs up, pushing all pain aside.

She grimaced, pulling the SIG from her belt, and leaned back towards the opening. She made it just in time to see the Captain take a shot and grab the chair, positioning it under the vent hole.

She inched backwards as he leapt upwards, his hands grabbing onto the sides; he grunted as he pulled his full weight into the small space.

"Stoj! Stoj! Ajmo!" Sosa could hear the sounds of men clambering down the hallway, they would be there any second …

"Go, ándale, allez!" Murdock urged. She turned around and did as he said, shuffling on her pained knees, trying to ignore the gunshots. She squeezed her frame even smaller as the vent narrowed; her breathing pained and ragged. He hadn't been kidding – it was a tight squeeze and every movement reverberated through the walls, alerting the enemy to their position – it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

"'S not much further! Keep goin'!" He shouted and she was pretty sure he had just fired his gun – why she wasn't sure but it didn't matter; there was no room to peer back and see what was happening.

She kept moving through the dark, dusty vent until she hit a wall – left or right …

"Left, go left." The pilot grunted, sounding a little breathless – how he had managed to squeeze his shoulders through these vents was a near mystery.

She went left and after a few minutes she could see a sliver of light – it was miniscule but it was something. She hadn't seen actual daylight since her capture and the thought just made her move faster.

"I never thought I'd say this but, go towards the light!" She snorted; maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe the pain was getting to her, but that last one had been – mildly amusing.

She made it to the sliver of light, clearly the corner of a small access door, and pushed. It opened into a stairwell. A gorgeous, concrete stairwell – the closest she's been to the outside world in the past week.

Sosa turned slightly, preferring to go feet first rather than face and lowered herself slowly to the ground. Her knees nearly buckled but she held firm, turning to wait for the pilot, her heart thrumming in her chest.

He hopped out, landing with ease and quickly turned towards her, throwing her arm over his shoulder and pulling her up the stairs.

"Where are we going, Captain?" The sounds of battle were eerily close and she was certain she could smell smoke and feel heat radiating from the walls, "Is there a plan here?"

There hadn't been one before but now that they were out of that damn room she could only hope that he was leading her somewhere with such purpose for some reason other than an adrenaline high.

"You and your 'plans' …well, I left the bird on the roof – she should still be there, but you know how fickle those choppers can be, y' say one wrong word and off they go, into the blue yonder."

Sosa wasn't going to even try to figure out whether the man was serious or not. The majority of what she knew about the Captain was through her own research - his military record was filled with an alarming amount of holes - and through Face.

Through his records she could ascertain three main points: he was highly decorated, an incredible pilot and absolutely insane.

Through Face she had learned a similar but slightly different story. Face didn't deny the man was crazy but he always made it clear that there was in fact a difference between insane and crazy; that the Captain was assuredly crazy but not quite insane. The conversation had once so escalated to a point in which a dictionary was pulled out and thoroughly explained.

When that had rendered the debate inconclusive Face just smiled and said, 'Well, it's a good kind of crazy.'

In general, during her relationship with Face, she found they talked about the pilot far more than she would have wanted.

It was clear the two were friends – very good friends – and there were even times, though she hated to admit it, that she found herself jealous of the Face's clear affection for the pilot.

She always knew when he had just come from spending time with the man; whether it was because of his overly hyper mood or the fact that he had a song stuck in his head and couldn't stop humming, she could just tell.

It was the most ridiculous example of a 'bromance' she could imagine. They giggled whenever they were together, sharing their inordinate amount of 'inside jokes', would stay up for hours talking whilst playing video games and watching whatever movies they could get their hands on and hell, she would never, ever forget the time she had caught them napping together – sure the mission they had returned from had been a remarkably terrible one and they had had every right to collapse wherever they so chose, but on the couch and sprawled out on top of each other?

Sometimes she seriously wondered about their relationship.

"Ding," his voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up to see they had arrived at the roof access, "Top floor, roof access – where you will find all your escape needs, most notably the lovely and always efficient AW139 compliments of BTV – Bulgaria's only news channel."

"Captain –" she warned. Face may be able to put up with that nonsense in the field but she had always been a stickler for professionalism. And sanity.

The pilot was seemingly unfazed by her tone and peered out the door's small window, surveying the roof, ensuring the bird hasn't received any unwelcome company during his absence.

She leaned against the wall, gun held low, waiting for the all clear. She eyed him for a moment, taking in the leather jacket, the T-Shirt – she was pretty sure it said something along the lines of 'the dude abides' – the cargos. He was the exact opposite of everything the word 'soldier' or '(ex)military' made her think, yet here he was.

He shifted, peering as far right as he could and something glistened, there was something red and wet on the sleeve of his jacket. Was that blood? Was he bleeding?

"Are you injured, Captain?" Sosa said as she eyed the growing stain.

He looked at her for a moment, as if he had no idea what she was talking about and then down at his arm.

"Oh, 's nothin', just a little scratch – guess we figured out vents aren't the best hiding spot. Bullets go right through 'em. You just can't trust movies these days." Sosa blinked because that was all she could manage, "Alright, we've got the all clear."

He pulled the door open and again took her weight, sliding her arm over his shoulder – the chopper was untouched, despite the smoke that filled the sky and the sound of semiautomatics below.

They made it to the Bulgarian news helicopter with little difficulty, save the hobbling run, and the pilot pulled the door open for her, pushing her up and into the cabin before jumping into the cockpit and pulling the headset on over his hat.

Sosa could hear angry shouting from the pilot's headset from her position in the cabin.

"Well, it's not like I could take the headset with me, or the bird, that would've been – ok, ok, calm down – yep, mission accomplished, Boss, el Diablo has been secured – "

She decided to ignore the fact that her apparent comm. alias was 'el Diablo' and buckled in, watching the pilot's quick motions as he pulled the chopper off the ground.

She glanced out the window and just in time because the roof door flew open to reveal her previous captors, an RPG on the shoulder of one of the men.

"Captain, RPG to your left." She gripped the seat as the men below pointed at the helicopter.

"Oh, just a second, Boss, got some unfriendlies with a pretty 'ol ruchnoy down below –"

"Go, Captain! GO!" She all but shouted as the aforementioned RPG was loaded and man shouldering the weapon took a knee.

"I'm givin' it all she's got, Captain!" She would've been angrier with the pilot's apparent lack of concern if she wasn't so worried about the threat below. That and what he said was probably true, despite the theatrical way it was delivered – they were in a news chopper, not a military grade bird.

Her stomach lurched as the Captain made his move, pushing the chopper into a sickening dive off the building just as the RPG was released from it's barrel.

"Ohh –" She pushed herself back into the seat, watching as they dove into the corridor between the buildings; the clearance was absolute shit and they had no more than six flights of drop room …

An explosion sounded behind them. At least they had dealt with that problem.

Before she had time to further contemplate the fact that she had willingly gotten into a helicopter with this man, the pilot pulled the chopper upwards, a full 50-feet from the ground.

"Nothin' like a little base jumping, eh Capt?" Sosa was too busy trying not to lose whatever was left in her stomach to dignify that ridiculous remark with a response.

She had never actually flown with the man – never had a reason or the opportunity and frankly, had she, she probably would have passed it up without a second thought.

Even so, she could see why Colonel Smith had insisted on keeping Captain Murdock as their pilot. She had to keep reminding herself that no, this wasn't some ass-backwards flight simulator run, that the pilot was actually flying between buildings with no more than a 2-foot clearance on each side and dodging RPG fire like it was second nature.

Even more horrifically, she felt somewhat … safe. Despite his rather – eccentric – behavior she recognized his competence. The way he handled the joystick, the way he was constantly checking the gauges and his surroundings – there was a reason they weren't dead yet and she would never forget the C-130 incident.

"Alright, boys, I see you, comin' in for the landing."

Sosa leaned over, looking out the window and spotted the remaining members of the team, scrambling on the ground as they ran towards the chopper, shooting behind them as they went.

They touched down; bouncing slightly, and within seconds the entire team was inside the chopper.

"Ten outta ten, Murdock!" Hannibal said, taking a seat in the co-pilot's seat.

"Charrisa, darling!" Face shouted as he pushed B.A. into the cabin, ignoring his protests, "I trust you two had a nice play date?"

"He came in through the vents." She said dryly as he crouched down in front of her, hands already digging through the medical kit they had brought with them.

"Like Die Hard?" Face said, tossing a look over his shoulder, an adrenaline high grin spread across his features. She hissed as he slid an IV into the crook of her elbow.

"That's what I said!" Came the pilot's voice from the cockpit. Sosa was doing her best not to roll her eyes because the man had essentially saved her life after all. "Don't worry, Faceman, she was very … very cordial."

Face gave a small smile at that – he really didn't have to know the meaning behind that remark, thought Sosa - and looked up into her eyes, his expression serious for a moment.

"You okay?" She considered the question. Was she okay? That was a tough one and considering what she had been through the answer was probably an easy 'no.' She decided, with the audience and the fact that nothing could really be done about it, that for now it was best to bite her tongue.

"Yes, I'm fine. The Cap-" She paused. The pilot's actions had at least warranted the use of his name, "Murdock got there just in time."

Face smiled and her vision went a bit grey, the events of the week slamming into her full force now that she could actually rest. Face took the seat next to her and she let her head rest on his shoulder, watching the sky pass by through the cockpit window.

Hannibal was pulling at Murdock's jacket and the pilot was waving him off. She had almost forgotten he had been shot. She sighed; she really did owe it to the pilot. He had taken a big risk going in there after here and she decided she would thank him properly for it when she was less inclined to throw up and could see a little more clearly. It was the least she could do.

"Murdock and el Diablo sittin' in a tree, K-I-" No, on second thought, she was going to kill him, heroics or not.


	5. And I Would Walk 500 Miles

- Five: And I Would Walk 500 Miles -

_A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles._

- Christopher Reeve

The mission had gone to complete, absolute shit because of one, little mosquito.

Well, no, that wasn't quite fair as the main problem would turn out to be very, very loose and borderline retarded mentally defective. but Murdock really, really hated mosquitoes.

It hadn't mattered that they had all been taking their Malarone like good little boys; Malaria was a stubborn little fucker and it had found a way past all that proguanil hydrochloride and atavoquone and had invaded Face's body unforgiving and bent on making the man's life a living hell

It started four days before they were due to disable the illegal weapons factory, responsible for the majority of the weapons being moved from Yunnan to Lanzhou, China and finally to Pakistan occupied Kashmir, Face developed chills – B.A. had commented on it as it was strikingly unusual in the balmy 80-degree weather and Face had shrugged it off as a result of eating bad pork.

Three days before the mission came the night sweats and a low-grade fever. He would bolt up from sleep, drenched and panting, unable to cool down and Murdock would hand him a wet rag and regale him with stories

Two days to go and Murdock was watching him, concerned and only half listening to Hannibal as the man excused himself to vomit in the hole in the ground that had been serving as a toilet.

The day before the mission Murdock watched as Hannibal approached the obviously sick man, a hand on his shoulder. Whatever Hannibal had said, Face strongly disagreed and shook his head fervently before hunching over the map of Yannan.

The morning of the mission Face looked his worst; his hair stuck to his forehead and his blue eyes were glossy with fever. He looked unusually gaunt and his skin had taken on a sickly shade of grey.

Hannibal had been ready to call off the mission and have Murdock fly him back to command for treatment; his finger on the radio to call in an abort to the General but Face slapped it away like an indignant child. He convinced them he could do it, that it was only a few hours and that after that he could crawl into a hole and die.

They were no match for that brand of stubbornness and reluctantly Hannibal sent them off to their hilly hideaway in the cover of early morning.

"Keep an eye on him, Murdock." Hannibal had muttered as the pilot walked by.

"Both of 'em sir, even my third eye." Murdock said a serious nod, one that made it clear that Face's safety was his priority and he'd be damned if he let anything happen.

Murdock propped his feet up on the console of the hidden AH-6J and watched the man before him, taking in his stiff form and the way he wiped sweat from his forehead every few seconds.

Face was on sniper-duty, lying on his stomach in front of the two-man chopper, rifle pointed towards the buildings western wall – Face's role was vital in this situation. Several innocent locals worked in the building and Face was there to ensure the safety of both the ground force – namely Hannibal and B.A. and the small troop assigned to them– and that of the workers.

It was a tag team effort. Face would cover them from the ground and then, once Murdock was given the signal, from the air – the factory was located in a valley and the dense foliage offered many places for a vehicle to escape or for one of the many armed guards to take cover and take potshots. Intelligence had also 'suggested' the presence of one or two outposts located in the forest surrounding the factory – suggested meaning they were pretty sure but had no idea where they were. Helpful.

The entire mission would be recorded by the AH-6J's AESOP FLIR camera - providing the proof the Chinese and American governments were looking for - and Murdock would offer any needed air support in the form of the bird's equipped missile pods, miniguns and grenade launchers.

Face coughed and Murdock frowned as he caught the slight shake of the man's hand as he dragged it across his face for the umpteenth time.

"You know we have fifteen minutes before your signal - why don't you sit back and enjoy the scenery? We can play I Spy - I'll go first. I spy with my little eye something … green."

"I need to focus, man." Murdock knew that was absolute bull because he had seen the man shoot a toothpick out of another man's mouth, three thousand feet away, in the rain and while texting. And Murdock was pretty sure he had actually been sexting.

He wasn't going to dispute his claim, however, because Face's voice had taken on a hoarse quality and he didn't doubt that it was taking everything he had to just hold the heavy weapon.

Murdock grabbed his canteen and hopped out of the chopper, walking over to the sharpshooter and crouching down next to him. Face really was sweating bullets and Murdock could see the quiver in his muscles as he fought to keep the chills at bay.

"Fù shui nán shōu." Face glanced at him, the foreign language entirely unexpected; he groaned as he turned back to his scope.

"I should have known – where did you find the time to learn Chinese?" Face coughed as he blinked, trying to get his eyes to refocus.

"I didn't – not really – one day I had this gonzo headache and before it went a way I could read and speak Chinese." Murdock grinned and Face stared for a moment clearly trying to decide whether he was serious or not.

Knowing Murdock, he probably was.

That, however, wasn't the weirdest thing about that answer.

"Did you just say gonzo?" Face snorted.

"You heard me." Face managed to chuckle and Murdock felt somewhat relieved – maybe he was alright for the time being. Regardless, as soon as this was over he was drugging the man and hauling him to the nearest medical facility.

"Well, what did that – Fushu kung fu –" Face was coughing again and Murdock waited for him to finish, not quite liking the way he wheezed and gasped in between each fit.

"Fù shui nán shōu? Spilled water is hard to retrieve." He pushed the canteen towards the man and Face stared at it, looking unsure and as though it might bite, before relenting and taking a sip, "I don't think the guy who said it was talking about sweating, but hey, it sure sounds pretty."

Face nodded and Murdock watched as the color drained from his skin.

"Shit –" Face muttered as he half stood half rolled away from his position before losing the meager amount of water he had managed to drink to the forest floor.

"Face!" Murdock rushed to the sick man's side and placed a comforting hand on his back as he lost his stomach contents in painful heaves. "Ok, Temp, that's it, I'm taking you back to command –"

Murdock made a move to lift the man to his feet but Face pushed his hands away.

'No, no, I can make it. I'm fine." He tried to get to his feet but quickly fell to his knees, his legs shaking from the effort.

"Face, this isn't 'fine', this is far from 'fine', this is 'fine' like B.A. loves flying, or –" the AH-6J's radio crackled and Murdock realized with a sudden wave of dread that it was the mission commencement call.

"I'm calling for an abort." He scrambled towards the chopper and nearly fell as Face lunged forward, grabbing at his leg.

"No, I can do this." Face said with a hint of anger in his voice. "Murdock, I can do this."

Murdock swallowed heavily and lifted his hands in surrender, not wanting to cause any further stress.

"Alright, Face, but if this gets any worse I'm giving you the B.A. treatment and hauling you outta here."

Face glared at him before getting back to his rifle, groaning as he got back on his stomach.

The final call came in and within minutes the sounds of gunfire echoed around the small valley. Murdock watched from the cockpit, binoculars held high as he reported enemy positions to his team below.

Face fired a shot and Murdock didn't miss the groan of pain he emitted as the recoil pushed the gun roughly into his shoulder. That man was as stubborn as a mule; though Murdock figured that even mules would bend to the wily might of malaria…

Any moment now they'd have to take to the air and the pilot wasn't so sure Face was up to it. Looking through a scope whilst flying couldn't be easy on the eyes – he was worried the man would pass out and as he continued to sneak glances he realized this was a high probability.

Murdock swallowed his concern and called out a man's position behind B.A., the bastard thought he could get the drop on the man. Not on Murdock's watch. Motion from the corner of his vision had him squinting into the woods; a jeep was driving towards the building, towards his team.

Then came sound of a Gatling gun. Shit, they had heavy ammunition; the intelligence reports hadn't said anything about heavy ammunition on the defense. This factory wasn't supposed to be producing gats, not according to the last intel survey…

Nor had it accounted for the fact that the 'workers' – most of them at least - weren't innocent locals at all – they all seemed a little too comfortable with a gun …

"Face! Take out those gats!" Hannibal's voice came through the radio Murdock watched the jeep with the mounted gat fly by – they couldn't lift off until that thing was down. The last time Murdock had faced a gat it ended in gat: 1, Murdock and the ever lovely Robinson r22: 0.

It would be a tough target, but Face was hard-rivaled when it came to taking the shot.

What happened next happened so quickly that Murdock was hard pressed to recount it with accuracy, tough he had always been prone to colorful exaggeration - he had heard the familiar 'pop' of Face's rifle and then Face had said something, Murdock's brain was telling him it was 'I-missed' – incredulous and pained – but Murdock refused to believe it. Then there was the roar of an explosion, the terrible ratta-tat-tat of the gat and the trees to his right splintered – his first thought had been smoke monster á la Lost – and then he was on the ground, hands over his head.

The sound of gunfire quieted for the moment and Murdock looked up, dirt sticking to his face and his ears ringing slightly from the loud 'ping' of a bullet that had struck metal too close to his head. He looked over to where Face had perched himself and ; he wasn't moving, fuck, he wasn't moving.

Murdock stood and ran, despite the fact that the scenery around him and probably the chopper had just been blown to bits, and baseball slid –safe! - to his friend's side, curling over Face as the gattling gun opened fire once again.

"Face! C'mon, Face –" He carefully rolled the man over, hovering low and hopefully out of the gat's sights. He was expecting to find blood, some sort of injury, but he looked relatively unharmed.

He gave the man's cheek a light pat and flinched, the man's skin was hot, warmth radiating from him like a damn space heater. His pallor was grey and sickly and his breathing was shallow and labored. Whatever had happened had probably been a result of the raging fever …

The reason didn't matter; he was thanking multiple deities in various languages for awesome timing.

He flung the rifle strap onto his shoulder and gripped underneath the man's arms, dragging him backwards behind a large, downed tree, making sure he was well covered.

"Just gotta make a call, Facey-boy, don't go anywhere." He darted towards the helicopter.

One look and he knew it was down for the count; it had more holes than swiss cheese and he could smell fuel and grease. He checked the controls for good measure, flicking the start pump, battery, pitch, servos – nada; not that he expected anything but if he could just get the main rotor working– he wasn't being greedy, he wasn't even asking for the back rotor - he'd be golden.

He didn't bother with the radio – it looked like a pretentious art installation composing of a mass of circuitry and smelling of burning plastic.

He stayed low, grabbing the small transponder under the seat and the small pack he carried on all flights containing maps of the surrounding region and the military minimum of survival gear: matches, signal mirror, fire blanket, purifying tablets – hopefully they wouldn't need it but better safe than extremely sorry.

Murdock bent over the pilot's seat, scraping at the floor, searching for that very, very valuable walkie they had had -

A bullet ricocheted off the frame of the chopper and Murdock dropped down again; that wasn't from a gat, which meant they knew they were still there and whatever was going on below was very, very bad and very, very unsuccessful on their part.

Which also meant that B.A. and Hannibal were down there in a complete shit-storm with no air cover as per the original plan. Murdock swallowed any pesky negative thoughts because this was Hannibal and B.A. - the two baddest mofos around - and made his way back to Face, ducking and flinching as a few shots came to close for comfort.

Face was still out cold and hell he looked worse than before if that was even possible. He didn't have time to wait for the man to awake from his fever-induced slumber so he promptly pulled him up and over his shoulders with a grunt; lifting dead weight from the ground was no easy feat.

He wasted no time taking to the thick undergrowth; whoever had discovered their position would be coming to investigate and he didn't plan on playing the part of welcoming party; he had done that once or twice and it always ended with him getting shot or with a concussion.

He walked for ten minutes before he hit a dirt road and no more than twenty seconds later came the sound of a truck chugging up the hill. Sometimes they had the absolute worst luck …

Murdock looked around for a place to hide; he couldn't go back downhill, they'd certainly see him, hightailing it like a spooked deer and he didn't wasn't to risk crossing the road and charging up hill – he spotted dead palm fronds in the deep, mud filled ditch by the side of the road's edge, blown down by the last storm. It would have to do.

The truck just crested the ridge and Murdock moved fast, putting Face down, grimacing as the mud made a loud squishing sound, and grabbed the large fronds before leaning over his unconscious friend and pulling the leaves over their bodies.

… He couldn't remember if he got this idea from Ranger training or a cartoon he had seen. He was really hoping for the former but it was probably the latter.

The truck approached and slowed to an agonizing roll, having neared the immediate vicinity of the destroyed chopper – Murdock held his breath as he heard the chatter of the high Kunming Mandarin.

"Zhǎodào tāmen!" Find them. He could hear the crunch of boots, no more than a few feet away.

Below him, Face groaned and panic flourished in Murdock's gut. He quietly put a hand over the man's mouth and fevered blue eyes opened, confusion and panic clear.

"Shh –shh." Murdock shushed and Face seemed to get the message as he gave a tight nod.

The boots descended into the woods behind them and the truck's breaks creaked as it pulled away. They waited another until all they could hear was the sounds of the surrounding jungle and Murdock could feel Face's heart hammering in his chest.

Murdock tentatively pushed the fronds up and when it seemed the coast was clear, pushed them off with a heavy sigh.

"Erm – Murdock?" Face asked hoarsely.

"I love ya and all, bud, but you're kind of crushing me –" Murdock gave a small 'oh' and rolled from on top of him.

"How're you feelin'? You gave me a real good scare - what happened?" He offered the man a hand up and Face took it hesitantly, an arm curled around his ribs.

"I missed the damn gat, gave away our position." Face's voice was rough with resentment as he was pulled to his feet. He looked around and squinted before turning back to the pilot who was hovering anxiously by his side.

"How'd we get here?"

"You –um – passed out, I think, and well – how d'you feel?" Murdock watched carefully as Face frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose, a trail of sweat dripping down his temple.

"I don't – I don't know." He swayed on his feet and Murdock steadied him, giving a quick look down the road, and then back at Face. "Fuzzy? Can't think straight."

Murdock didn't like the sound of that. If anyone wasn't supposed to be thinking straight it was him.

"D'ya think you can walk? We need to meet up with Hannibal and B.A., get to the rendeze-vous – get you some help." Face didn't look like he could stay on his own two feet, much less walk, but he nodded and coughed a weak 'yeah.'

Face took a step forward and stumbled over his own boots, his feet abnormally sluggish. He gave a grateful nod as Murdock pulled his arm over his shoulder and smiled.

"Take a load of Facey, take a load for free, take a load off Facey, and you put the load right on me –"

That earned him a small chuckle and after a few more seconds of being serenaded, Face couldn't help but join in as they made their way through the dense, Chinese forest.

They walked for an hour before it became painfully clear that Face wouldn't be able to go for much longer. Each step was more of a stumble and they had stopped twice already to allow the man to attempt to empty his stomach as he was wracked with spasms.

To make matters even more special, a light rain had begun; he figured this was karma for all that eye drop solution he had put in the Black Forest boy's most recent meal.

"Let's take a break, Face." He eyed the man as he slumped against a tree, exhausted from his body's rather violent contractions. The man had refused to stop, saying they had to find Hannibal and B.A. and make sure they were ok, which was true, but they wouldn't be any help to them if Face collapsed from illness and exhaustion; not to mention, Murdock was getting very uncomfortable with the amount of heat the man's body was creating – he had started to sweat just from Face's body heat and he was desperate to get the man to rest and try to cool off, to regain some strength.

Face shook his head and started to get to his feet but this time Murdock was putting his foot down.

"Nu-uh, we're taking a break, you are resting and drinking this water and you're gonna like it." Murdock handed him the canteen and gave him his best 'don't-fuck-with-me' á la Hannibal look; had Face not been so miserably ill it would have been amusing because if anything it looked like

"Fine. Colonel." Face said stubbornly as he took a sip of water, head leaned back against the tree and eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"That's Captain Colonel to you, Lieutenant." Face snorted as Murdock pulled out the maps from the pack, laying them out across the damp ground.

He traced the map with his fingers, starting at Kunming and tracking west to Shuangbai – they were between Xinhuaxiang, Xinping Yizu Daizu and Tadianzhen – just south of the Hongguoshu mountain range … that put them – Murdock frowned – right in the middle of fucking nowhere. The closest town around was Xinping – 30 miles away.

He had know this of course, but with their previous position compromised and the first rendezvous in a direction he was hesitant to travel – north of the factory, they had been south of it - it put them in a precarious position. The second rendez-vous was three miles north of Xinping – just over a small mountain range.

"Something wrong, Captain Colonel?" Murdock adjusted his hat, wiping at the sweat gathering on his forehead.

"Feeling up to a pleasant thirty mile hike?" They shared a moment of 'we're-fucked' silence before Murdock folded the map back into a tight rectangle and shoved it in his pocket.

At peak physical condition 30-miles was a day hike, but Face wasn't exactly qualifying for 'peak'.

"Maybe we should backtrack," Murdock said – Face wasn't going to make it thirty miles, "wait it out, circle around to the rendez-vous- "

The question of whether the rest of their team ad survived hung in the air, stagnant and unspoken.

They both knew this was a probable crapshoot – if the guards had made it to the chopper than they had also realized they had gotten away, which also meant they would try to flush them out and Murdock would bet his entire comic and sock collection that those guys knew the jungle better than they did.

They were also lacking any form of communication with their unit; the chopper had been their main form of communiqué and Murdock hadn't been able to locate that walkie before that gat came a callin' …

When it came down to it, they decided to go for the rules of Ranger-dom. When your position was compromised you found a new positon; preferably one far, far away from the conflict zone, where you could make contact and regroup and if necessary – and Murdock was silently praying to every known God that it wouldn't be the case – formulate a rescue plan.

Xinping it was then.

"Thirty miles." Face muttered before huffing and pushing himself off the tree, his joints aching and his limbs as heavy as lead.

"A walk in the park." Murdock grinned as he once again helped Face off the ground; the man was getting weaker, that was certain, and that terrible chill had taken to him once again and was edging on full blown convulsions.

Three hours later and only a handful of miles gained, Murdock pulled them to a halt – Face blinked blearily, seemingly moving on pure reflex.

"Why've – cough – why've we stopped?"

"D'ya hear that?" Murdock looked around and Face blinked again, squinting but unable able to hear anything but the rush of blood in his ears as his headache worsened.

It was quiet and Murdock almost missed it but it was there; people talking in low, hushed voices.

'Jìxù xúnzhǎo' Keep looking. 'Tāmen bùnéng bèi yuǎn' They can not have gotten far.

It was clear Face now heard it as well because his head snapped in the direction of the voices. They didn't need to discuss the next plan of action. They ran.

They did their best to make as little noise as possible and Murdock winced with every crack of a twig as they rushed through the undergrowth. Face was outright panting and he would have fallen flat on his face on multiple occasions had Murdock not been supporting him.

After an hour of running in what Murdock still hoped to be south, Face's knees gave out and they both went crashing to the ground.

Face heaved, breaths coming in painful gasps as he coughed and fought the dark edges at his vision.

"I can't – I can't," Murdock pushed him to a sitting position, shaking his head, "m'sorry, man, I can't."

"What? No, no, you can, Face, you have to, I'll help you, come on now - ." Murdock's voice wavered and he bit his lip as he watched the man's eyelids droop, those dark coal rings under his eyes making him look even worse.

"Go," Face looked tiredly up at him in all seriousness. His blue eyes were blood shot and exhausted, still tinted with fever but he meant what he was saying; this was no fevered mistake, "you can come back f'r me, get yourself t-"

"No, you're not playing action hero – not today, Face – that's for the day where there's a pretty girl involved and lots and lots of explosions, maybe a car chase –" Face groaned as Murdock tried to rally him; he was getting too tired to even protest, "- Face, I can carry you."

Face squinted back at him, the low light filtering through the palms burning his eyes and making his head pound; Murdock wasn't going to relent. Murdock, if possible, was more stubborn than he was. It extended to all areas of life – if Murdock wanted a movie night, it didn't matter if they were in the ass-crack of the desert, he would find or perform something; if he wanted to make gumbo, he would make gumbo even if all he had was bush meat, tanning oil, a pocket fool of rice and questionable wild vegetables. So, he could only expect that Murdock would have his way either by waiting until he passed out or just picking him up like a piece of luggage, despite any protests.

With a tight nod, Face consented and the look on the pilot's face was enough to regret even asking Murdock to beg him to accept his help. Murdock helped him up a bit, making it slightly easier for the pilot to get him into a position that would make the transition much easier, and finally pulled the man onto his shoulders for the second time that day; he grunted as he got to a full stand and though Face knew the man was no lightweight he wondered if he could handle his weight for that long.

"Don' worry, Face, y' ain't heavy, you're my brother."

Despite Murdock's proud quoting of the Hollies and general confidence it turned out that Face was heavy, especially when he thrashed and twitched as fevered dreams took hold.

Before departing he had checked the map – 18 miles, only 18 miles – and still it felt far too long. His legs ached and he was getting a little weak in the knees and his boots were catching every damn root and rock.

He had always had a good internal compass – a natural Magellan, really – and he was fairly confident he had gained a good 5 miles.

He hadn't heard anything from their pursuers for at least two miles and he attributed it to the fast and dirty false trail he had laid down, leaving his hat and part of his shoelace string behind; hopefully it would be enough to send them in the wrong direction long enough for them to get to Xinping.

After another mile, darkness had fallen and the air was filled with the noises of nocturnal wildlife - more than once Murdock had jumped at the almost human howl of a Yunnan snub-nosed monkey – and it was becoming near impossible to see, his 20/10 vision of no particular help in the dark.

It was pure luck, then, that brought him to the small, vine covered shack; in fact, he had pretty much walked straight into it, stubbing his toe painfully against it's wooden side.

It was small, very small, barely enough to house one person and was probably a local hunters, a place to rest during the hunt. Murdock cautiously toed the flimsy door inwards, taking in the wooden table-like structure attached to one of the walls, a hay-like vegetation laid upon it – a bed, if he had to guess, albeit one that would only sleep a midget comfortably. Nothing else occupied the space, which was about an arm span in width.

It didn't matter; it had a roof, a glorious, somewhat rainproof roof and he needed to get Face out of the elements. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

Murdock shimmied them inside what could only be called a 'room', mindful of Face's head as he squeezed through the doorframe, and carefully lowered the man to the wooden slat.

Face didn't so much as acknowledge the change in position and Murdock pulled off his leather jacket, bunching it up and placing it under Face's head. He swung the rifle from his shoulder, leaning it against the wall then pulled off the pack, rummaging through it until he found the tightly wrapped fire blanket.

"Don't you worry none, Face, gonna wrap you tight and snug – like a burrito." And he had to admit, the reflective blanket looked remarkably like tinfoil.

He checked the canteen – it was about a fourth full – and crouched down next to Face. He didn't want to disturb whatever 'rest' he was getting but he needed to get fluids into him.

Face shook and coughed lightly and remained unresponsive to Murdock's gentle prodding and whispered words of encouragement.

All Murdock could do was listen to the rain against the tin roof and continue his careful vigil, trying to keep Face's fever down with a wetted piece of cloth and offer him water during those rare moments of clarity.

At one particularly horrifying point, Face had started convulsing, striken by a fever-induced seizure

"Temp, it's ok, ol' HM is here, it'll be over soon, just hold on and we'll get y' outta here -" He had said in a voice that was a mixture of calming and borderline panicking – probably not a winning and convincing combination.

After those four frightening minutes he continued to dab the wetted fabric – a piece of his t-shirt - at Face's forehead and eventually stripped the man of his shirt, cooling his chest as he sang under his breath; this time Across the Universe.

After what seemed like forever, Face stilled, his chills abating for the time being and his fever slightly less seizure inducing.

At one particular bright moment, Face managed to choke down a mouth full of water and keep it down; Murdock had felt like a proud father.

Then the nightmares started; Face kicked and punched, an impressive feat in the small shack, and Murdock fought to keep himself from hurting himself, holding down his bucking limbs and trying his best to find the right words as he tried to comfort him.

During that time Murdock had managed to catch two right hooks and a vicious kick to the ribs – even unconscious Face was a force to be reckoned with.

There was one nightmare in particular that had stuck with him; no matter what he said he couldn't seem to convince the man that he wasn't going to up and abandon him. That had been a long two hours.

"Don't leave –" He said as his teeth chattered and sweat streamed down the sides of his face, "Murdock, please don't leave –"

"I'm not – I won't – I'm right here." He tried but blue eyes had stared up at him, certain he would just evaporate any second.

Face grabbed at his shirt, shaking and sweating, head tossing unable to shake whatever tormenting images plagued him.

"I'm right here." This became his mantra and lucky for him, it worked 50% of the time.

The night drew on like that in a vicious, cyclical pattern; nightmares then chills, then vomiting, then coughing – each time Murdock did his best to ease the man's pain, the general unfairness of the situation and the clear agony he was in breaking his heart.

He fought the pull of exhaustion as he slumped by Face's 'bed', cramped between the wooden protrusion and the wall, his head drooping as he kept one arm stretched up awkwardly, his hand tightly holding that of his ill companion.

The rain continued, getting heavier in short bursts before settling again for a drizzle. He fiddled with the transponder, punching in the complicated string of numbers that would activate its homing beacon. He had been somewhat reluctant to activate it at all, or at least, reluctant to activate it before finding relative safety or making it to the rendezvous; the transponder sent out their position, that was true, but it was visible to anyone who may be looking for it – regardless, he felt in the end, the benefits would outweigh the danger, their position would be sent to command, regardless of what had happened to the ground team.

The red light blinked to life in a steady pulse and Murdock stares, it was almost comforting …

The box fell out of his hands and he startled awake.

He was doing everything he could to not fall asleep and it was getting tough; he had already sung through his all time favorites, had re-enacted, to the best the space would allow him, Top Gun and had had a very one-sided conversation with Face about the important difference between Northern and Central Mandarin.

Hours passed. Goddamn hours with no relief in sight for Face.

Finally the rain ended and the light of early morning poked through the spaces in the walls. Murdock dragged a hand down his face, willing the fatigue away, the weight of the responsibility overwhelming him for a moment; Face was getting worse and nothing he did seemed to matter. His fever was controlled but still very high; he had to make it to Xinping even if it meant driving himself into the ground.

He let out a half delirious-from-exhaustion giggle as the Proclaimers played in the back of his head.

And I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more …

He contained himself and peeked outside, checking to see if they were in the clear, before wrapping up the fire blanket and gathering Face back up – this time the man was completely out and though it could have been his fatigue, he seemed even heavier than before.

He left the shack and continued his trek, walking, ignoring the fact that his feet were wet and it wasn't from the rain or sweat. His feet were going to hate him forever for this.

Murdock was beginning to feel slightly delirious and hell he might have been because at one point he stopped and stared upwards, certain, absolutely fucking certain he had heard the sound of helicopter rotors.

After five minutes of staring into empty blue sky he blinked, attributing it to a full-blown hallucination because it wasn't as though that had never happened before.

Murdock shifted Face's weight and moved up a steep hill and he could have cried at the sight that was greeting him.

They were at the top of an overlook and below him, maybe another fifteen minutes hike was a valley and hark!, was that a road? Yes, oh yes it was– the one he had seen on the map, the one that was just a mere three miles outside of Xinping. The secondary rendezvous; the one reserved for when the shit had really hit the proverbial fan.

Then came that sound again; helicopter rotors beating confidently above him. He waited, still not trusting his mind to not play poorly timed games and after a moment he caught sight of a beautiful HH-60G Pave Hawk.

He lurched forward, pushing himself into a slow, steady jog, unashamed desperation bursting forth as he imagined visions of cell phones and drugs ending in –cycline and –quine and a proper bed for Face …

The sound of a gunshot accompanied by hurried shouting, voices telling him to 'stop' in Chinese came from nowhere. The double edged sword that was that homing beacon and such perfect timing!

He didn't even risk the glance behind him because he didn't really care to take on any extra lead - he still had that bit of shrapnel behind his scapula – and all he had eyes for was the Hawk.

Despite his mind's insistence that running like a madman down what was technically a freaking mountainside was a really bad idea he went for it, ignoring the way his ankles twisted as he rushed haphazardly.

All he could really think about was his promise to Hannibal; how there was no way in hell he was going to let him and Face down when he was so damn close, how he wasn't going to let Face suffer without treatment for another damn hour.

To his surprise he made it to the edge of the jungle and what greeted him should have been accompanied by heavenly lights and a chorus of singing angels. The Hawk's door slid open to reveal one Hannibal Smith, a rifle in his hands, trained on the jungle behind him, and Bosco 'B,friggin.A.' Baracus – they both looked like absolute shit but they could exchange such pleasantries later.

B.A. was waving him forward, urging him to go faster and God, how he wanted to, but didn't he see what, or rather, who he was carrying? He ducked down as he neared the bird's 'danger zone', stooping low because he wasn't about to decapitate himself or Face, and finally made it to the opening.

He was hardly aware of his own motions as he moved into the chopper. B.A. relieved him of Face for the time being, and he dove forward, collapsing into the corner as Hannibal slammed the sliding door shut.

He took a moment to gather his breath, laying on his back and staring up at the metal interior, but it was no time to rest, he still had a vigil to maintain.

Murdock was hardly listening as B.A. said something about how the mission was a spectacular fail and they had been sure he had gotten his 'fool-ass' captured or killed and how they had been pinned down for the entire night and how he was going to kill somebody because he was flying, willingly, and that he wanted to punch malaria in it's stupid infectious face.

He only vaguely heard Hannibal telling him he did good, barely felt him clasp the back of his neck in that fatherly manner that usually made his heart swell, barely registered the concern in his voice.

The pilot could only focus on Face, reaching out to grab his hand; after so many hours of literally carrying the man the abrupt loss of contact felt wrong. B.A. and Hannibal worked around him, making Face comfortable and sticking him with a generously large bore IV, and Murdock was sure Face squeezed back when the needle went in.

"Murdock?" It was so quiet Murdock wasn't sure he had said anything at all, but there it was, that light squeeze and the flutter of eyelids.

"I'm here, Face, y'r safe now." His voice was thick with emotion and if B.A. or Hannibal noticed, they didn't show it.

Face grunted, a sound that could have been taken for some brand of acknowledgement and Murdock felt Face's grip slacken as he dropped back into a sick sleep.

Murdock let his head fall back against the metal interior of the chopper with a resounding 'thunk' and he took a deep breath, unable to fight the tightening of his throat and the prickling in his eyes.

It had only been 24 hours but the fallout was bad enough; the stress, fatigue and unfiltered fear were catching up with him but he did his best to squash it down. He still had to see Face through this, had to be there for the recovery; his watch wasn't quite over with.

So, for now, he just breathed and focused on nothing but his hold on Face's hand, reveling in the warmth and the tangible throb of his pulse, finding strength in each beat.


	6. Heroes Are Made of This

- Six: Heroes Are Made of This -

_A hero cannot be a hero unless in a heroic world._

- Nathaniel Hawthorne

Hannibal could not for the life of him recall a time in which he had been more furious than he was now. His natural state was calm and collected but when it came to his team – when it came to the safety of his damn team …

"Explain to me, General, why I had to hear about my pilot's capture through goddamned scuttlebutt."

This was unacceptable. He stood over the General's desk, not even bothering to salute as he unleashed his fury.

The General looked him up and down for a moment, a distasteful look on his face, and then peered behind him at the two men who had followed him into his office without warning and breaking rank.

"You are aware of our position on these matters, Colonel, and I highly advise you to check your attitude before we continue discussing this delicate matter."

"One of my men is in the hands of Iraqi hostiles and he got there by your orders which were based on bad intelligence, sir. You will just have to excuse my attitude."

"Colonel, like I said, this is a very delicate matter. Captain Murdock's orders were and continue to be highly confident-"

Fuck confidentiality, thought Hannibal. Fuck it.

"I want to know everything, goddamnit!" Hannibal all but shouted across the man's desk, not caring about seniority or the fact that these walls were paper-thin.

He had every damn right to be livid. Murdock's capture hadn't been reported to him as it should have been; instead, he had heard it from one of the nameless grunts in the mess hall, talking about 'the Hawk' that went down in Tikrit that morning.

The remaining members of his A-Team had stiffened before sharing a look that could only be described as dread. Hannibal didn't need to say a word; they followed him at a run, charging into the commanding General's office without so much as a knock.

"Colonel," the man sighed, pinching the bridge of his noise as this was just one big fucking annoyance, a snafu, "Hannibal, we received intel that the Black Hawk commanded by Captain Murdock was shot down at 0800 and taken hostage by al-Qaeda terrorists –"

"You knew about this at 0800?" Face was red with anger as he stepped forward. He was speaking out of line but fuck it, he couldn't take this – they could have done something hours ago. "Why the fuck didn't we know about this at 0800, sir?"

"The confidential nature of the –" the room exploded in a cacophony of disagreeing voices, "This is some goddamn bullshit, sir." - "Lieutenant, Corporal, you both are dangerously close to a demotion." – "fuck the goddamn sensitive nature –" – "then demote me, sir –"

They were all shouting over each other, the room buzzing with energy as their voices grew, carrying through the walls and down the hallway.

Finally, Hannibal slammed his fists down on the General's desk, the small American flag mounted by the man's nameplate falling to the floor.

"You will not withhold information pertinent to my team, General. I am Captain Murdock's commanding officer and it is my right and responsibility to know of his safety and whereabouts, confidential or not."

The General – Croizier – his nameplate read, was beet red and looked to be an inch from giving the entire team a dressing down. Hannibal gladly stared the man down, daring him to disagree, to get between him and one of his men.

"Colonel, your man was operating a covert mission and is being held hostage with a ransom we cannot honor. Like I said, you know our position on these matters, we do not negotiate with terrorists. I am sorry, Hannibal, but the US Army has no choice but to consider this matter closed."

Hannibal had to take a moment to resist the urge to kill the man. It wouldn't help Murdock if they all went to prison for the murder of a US General.

"You goddamn bastard," Face lurched forward and was stopped only by Hannibal's hand on his chest – he would have climbed over that fucking oak desk and strangled the man otherwise, "That man is a US Ranger. He has fought for his country, shed blood for you, you cannot just fucking abandon him like this."

Hannibal could feel the man tensing underneath him, his frame shaking with rage as he pointed in the General's face. B.A. stood at his other side, his fists clenched tightly and his expression dangerous.

"The United States Army is grateful for Captain Murdock's dedication and service and he will be recognized for h-" Croizier didn't have a chance to finish whatever terrible, idiotic thing he was about the say.

"He's not dead yet, General," Hannibal growled, disgusted by the man's ability to so easily consider their pilot dead, "Give us his last known location and my team and I will go in and retrieve him."

The man shook his head and Hannibal had to put both hands out to keep B.A. and Face from making a move.

"You do not have clearance to engage in combat, Colonel. I cannot give you permission to enter Tikrit under orders of the US Army –"

"We're not asking for clearance, sir. I am taking my team into Tikrit with or without your or the military's permission." Hannibal's steely gaze bore into the General as he took a step forward, towering over the shorter man, "All I am asking for is information concerning Captain Murdock's whereabouts."

General Croizier sighed and reached into the file in front of him, plucking a single page for the thin folder. He stared at it, crumbling it slightly between his fingers as he placed it in front of Hannibal, and then standing and turning his back as he peered out the window behind his desk.

"If you undergo this mission, Colonel, you will not have the support of the US Army." That meant no pilot, no air cover, no intel …

Hannibal scowled as his eyes scanned the report.

15/04/2005 - 0852

FORWARD, REPORT RE: MISSION QADHA-F14

MH-60L BLACK HAWK TERMINATED 0801

CASUALITIES: 3

REPORTED HOSTAGE:

CAPTAIN HM MURDOCK

LAST KNOWN LOCATION:

LATITUDE: 34° 35' 48 N, LONGITUDE: 43° 40' 37 E

TIKRIT, SALAH AD DINH, IRAQ

He folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket. His team was the best and he'd be damned if he let the lack of support stop him; they had worked in worse situations before and he had no doubt they would be at their best this time. Murdock was depending on it.

* * *

Murdock coughed and gagged as the smoke from the ruined helicopter filled the cockpit. His hands shook as they tried to find the buckle to his harness, unable to hold still long enough to find the mechanism. Finally, he located the release mechanism and pulled.

He fell to the ground with a painful thud.

Huh. He hadn't even realized he wasn't right side up.

He tried to reorient himself as he pushed himself to his elbows, hissing as broken glass bit into his hands and arms, cutting easily through his clothing.

The control panel was sparking and static sounded over the radio. His hands fumbled over the dials and controls as he blindly searched for the radio. Finally, he found it and clicked the buttons on the side.

More static. Looking good here. He tossed the thing aside and blinked, trying to see through the smoke and the general blurriness of his vision. He couldn't see a damned thing; he had to get out of there.

Murdock moved forward in a slow crawl, doing his best to ignore the glass that had imbedded itself into his arms and legs. He crawled past his co-pilot, the man hanging like slaughtered meat from his seat, his body from the torso up a mess of blood and tissue, and made it into the open-faced cabin.

He pulled himself up using the netting on the cabin's sides and managed to get to his feet. The cabin was destroyed – the mounted gun was bent and twisted, hanging broken from its anchor. Some of the side seats had been dislodged and the wiring had been shredded from their fixtures, sparking and smoking.

He scanned the cabin and found it devoid of life. The sergeant that had been reeling down the towline for the extraction of the CIA operative they had been sent to collect was nowhere in sight.

His foot caught a rigging clip and he promptly stumbled out from the Hawk and onto the sandy ground, his body screaming in protest.

He took a minute to just breathe because hell, the crash hadn't been a gentle one. He had managed to dodge the first missile and the second one, even. But the third …

Third times the charm!

He coughed and laughed and something dribbled out of his mouth, warm and coppery.

With a grunt he pushed himself up against the downed bird, trying to manage at least one replenishing breath. Apparently that was too much to ask for because all he got for his efforts was pain, pain and yeah, more pain.

The Hawk was hot and he realized it would probably be a grand ole' idea to get the hell away from it; it was probably a time bomb at this point. He gave the black chopper an affectionate pat.

"That'll do, pig, that'll do."

He decided to try to stand, which, Murdock knew, was probably a really shitty idea, but hey, it wasn't his worst.

He surprised himself, making it to his feet and managing five full steps forward.

Then the pain returned, full force, and his knees buckled sending him face first into the sand.

It stuck to his face, mingling with blood and sweat and he briefly thought about the time he had buried Face to his neck in sand while he was napping in his freshly dug, sleeping hole. The resulting panic had been hilarious.

He was pretty sure he could hear the sound of laughter, giggling even and he smiled. He cracked an eye open – he didn't remember closing them – and found the source of the noise. A child, no more than four years old, was crouched over him, smiling and looking back, presumably at friends.

"Marhaba." It was a little slurred and hoarse but Murdock figured he had managed to say it right when the child giggled. Then came the sound of other voices, louder voices, angry sounding voices …

He opened his eyes again – seriously, when had he closed them? – and the child was gone.

"Hal bemkanek – kanek – " He tried to get the words out but his sluggish brain refused to supply him the complicated language. Stupid, unreliable brain.

The ping of bullets striking metal sent a jolt through his body. Was he under fire? Why was he under fire? Tikrit, his mind reminded him. You are so fucked.

He coughed again and tried to get off his back and onto his knees. He had to find cover. He managed to get onto his side but then there were hands, hands on his shoulders and legs pulling him upwards. He flailed, trying to break free from the strong grip.

"No – no, no –" He shouted, his voice sounding terribly rough as kicked out, panic setting in as his eyes blurred and he couldn't make out the faces above him, "Stop – k-kef, momkin alm-almusa-"

They laughed as he struggled in their hands, trying to free himself, to get his ground and just run.

One of the men growled something and his mind struggled to translate. They were speaking too fast, too thickly accented and hell; they were beating him as they went, trying to shut him up.

He kicked out again, his boot finding a target and they dropped his legs. He tried to yank himself away but there were too fucking many. He felt the butt of a gun strike the back of his head, sending him to the ground and an oozing warmth dripped down into the back of his BDU.

The last thing he saw was the burning wreck of his downed Black Hawk and the bottom of a boot as it came down on him.

* * *

General Croizier was a fool to think Hannibal wouldn't find a way to get into Tikrit. Hannibal and his team had saved a lot of lives and they had amassed plenty of favors they could call in. It was time to start collecting on those favors.

Within half an hour of his 'discussion' with the General he had managed to procure a willing pilot and an aircraft that would deliver them one mile from the city's border.

Fifteen minutes after that they – B.A. - had managed to 'coerce' – scare the shit out of - one of the local Smith boys to impart his knowledge concerning known Tikrit hostage strongholds.

Within the hour they were airborne and on their way to the coordinates Croizier had begrudgingly provided.

B.A. hadn't said a single word as he stepped into the MI-8; he merely took a seat and busied himself with the AK-47 in his lap and the bowie knife on his belt.

Face hadn't said a word since their departure. His expression was as serious as sin and Hannibal had found himself hard-pressed to recall a moment in which the man had looked more determined and more furious while simultaneously focused.

The pilot deposited them at the planned LZ before turning away, promising to return once they contacted him and Hannibal only needed to give him a look, one look, to make the pilot know that if he didn't come back he might as well consider his military career over.

Hannibal led his two-man team down the seemingly abandoned alley. Dusk was settling in, offering them an advantage and greater cover. Hannibal signaled them to stop, motioning to Face to check their position.

Face squatted against the wall and pulled out the GPS unit and pointed at the screen and then out at the road. He held up two fingers.

Two blocks. The chopper was two blocks from them.

B.A.'s hands tightened around his gun and he gave Hannibal a nod before taking the lead, turning around the buildings corner to get a view of the street.

He could see it. The smoking black shape at the end of the empty street, rotors digging deep into the parched earth in it's awkward upside down position. It must have rolled, B.A. thought as anger rose in waves.

The tail of the Hawk was missing, blown off by an RPG, if B.A. had to guess.

It looked bad. Very fucking bad.

"Fuck, man." B.A. muttered as he turned back to Hannibal and Face, their faces pale in the fading light. Face pushed ahead of the larger man and took a look for himself.

When he turned back around he looked downright murderous.

They took a minute to huddle over their map, searching out the stronghold Smith had given them before plugging the information to the handheld GPS, relaying the position to their pilot.

"Here," Hannibal said in a low voice, pointing at an area north of their position, "this is where they've been taking hostages, the ones they keep alive for ransom."

B.A. and Face didn't bother mentioning the fact that there had been three possible locations. They trusted Hannibal and if his gut said this was the one, this was the fucking one. This was where Murdock was.

They discussed their approach, how Face would take the roof across the main building, providing cover as the team's sharpshooter, and Hannibal and B.A. would come in from the North and South. The plan wasn't complicated, was based on general brutality over a slower infiltration tactics if anything. They just didn't know how much time Murdock had; they needed to act as fast as possible.

They stuffed their gear back into their small tactical packs and stood, huddled for a moment, heads nearly touching. Hannibal nodded, his expression serious and deadly as he tightened his grip on the shoulders of his Lieutenant and Corporal.

"Let's go get our pilot back."

* * *

They picked him up and dragged him down a hallway, his boots dragging against the floor.

Everything hurt, absolutely everything.

His BDU was covered in blood and sand and he found it vaguely amusing that he had never managed to use a pair more than once.

He was brought to a room and forced to sit in a chair. They questioned him and most the time he just laughed. Or sang. They didn't like the singing.

They asked about Mission Qadha, about General Croizier. They asked him about the CIA operative they had killed. They asked him about weapons and the Army's plans for Tikrit.

He never said a word, not relevant ones anyway.

He only answered one question and did so with a bloody grin.

"My team? All I can tell you about my team, compadre, is you're not gonna like 'em when they're angry."

From somewhere far away, a voice began to sing, rising to fill the room. The Call to Prayer.

* * *

B.A. rounded the building, his knife and pistol held out in front of him as he barreled down the alley. The AK-47 bounced against his back; if he could help it, he would only engage in hand-to-hand combat – they couldn't risk anyone hearing the shots. The fool's life depended on it.

The sight of the broken Black Hawk had been enough to make him sick with anger and he felt nothing but that damn, toxic anger as he ran. He couldn't feel the fear churning in his gut nor the burning of his legs.

He didn't feel anything when he snuck up behind the man watching the Northern corridor and pulled him into a chokehold. He didn't feel a damned thing when something whizzed by him and cut into his leg.

He couldn't feel anything else.

He pushed everything else away because Murdock needed him and what lay behind that fragile cover of anger was debilitating fear.

Fear they were in the wrong stronghold.

Fear that he was about to lose one of his greatest friends.

Fear that the last thing he had said to him hadn't been all so nice. His memory was being remarkably cruel: "They gonna let a crazy fool run point on a spec. ops. mission? They're as crazy as you, man …"

Fear that none of this even mattered because they were already too late.

* * *

Murdock bit back a groan as he was forced to his knees and a hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, exposing his neck.

He knew he was shaking but he couldn't help it. He was cold, injured and blindfolded. It might have been better had he been able to see what was going on, to see just what those sounds were – various beeps and clicks – and to be able to see the faces behind those voices.

He felt a sudden, strange warmth, something he associated with a space heater or some sort of spotlight …

Lights. Camera. Action.

The man holding his hair was shouting and had placed a knife to his throat. Murdock tried to calm himself as he began to hyperventilate because fuck, this was not how he wanted to go.

His heart began to race.

Smile for the camera.

He knew, somewhere his team was watching, knew they had come for him despite the odds, despite orders – knew that, by now, he was in their sights and that his team was going to see this.

No, there would be no 'this', there would be no tragic death scene, not today, because his team was watching and no man died on Hannibal's watch.

He smiled and coughed blood, didn't let the blade at his neck phase him.

Not on their watch.

* * *

Face was the first to spot Murdock, his breath catching in his chest as he watched as he was hauled into the room he had trained his rifle on.

"Alpha, I have eyes on Eagle, repeat, eyes on Eagle. Third floor, eastern wall, third room." He nearly shouted into his comm., his adrenaline so high he could barely contain himself.

"Copy that, ETA five minutes." came Hannibal's voice; Face's finger hovered over the trigger as he watched the men push Murdock to his knees, a man standing behind him, his hand pulling the man's head back by his hair. Face just caught the glint of the knife, "Wait for our entrance, Tango."

"Negative, Alpha. Negative. Eagle does not have five minutes."

"Tango, we don't know how many men are in that room –" Face couldn't see Murdock's face but could see him begin to struggle. He could see the knife. He could see that goddamned camera.

"They are going to fucking execute him, Hannibal." He shouted into the comm. He could hear B.A. saying something, then Hannibal but it didn't matter. Whatever was said was drowned out by the sound of the blood rushing through his veins, thrumming in his ears as he took the shot.

* * *

Hannibal ran down the alleyways, pushing past scrambling pedestrians who were fleeing from the sounds of gunfire.

Face had taken the shot and they weren't close enough, they weren't goddamned close enough.

"I'm going in, I'm going in!" The man's voice filled his ear as he tried to increase his speed. Whatever Face had seen had scared the hell out of him – he had abandoned standard radio code and was going in cold. Hannibal couldn't even bring himself to be angry; he would have done the same thing.

More gunshots sounded from ahead and Hannibal pushed himself forward. He wouldn't lose any men tonight, not on his watch.

* * *

B.A. wasn't going to make it – the round in the leg was slowing him down and making his vision a little blurrier than he would have liked.

He hobbled down the road, hugging the wall. He peered around the corner and grinned. The tarp-covered Frag 6 Humvee was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

* * *

There were two 'pops' and the sound of glass shattering.

Blood splashed his face and the man behind him fell, releasing his hair and causing him to fall forward, just barely catching himself with his handcuffed hands, the pain nearly making him pass out.

Yippe-ki-yay. The Calvary was here.

* * *

Face darted across the street, zigzagging as the sound of a machine gun split the air. He kicked the door open with ease and continued forward up the stairs, moving completely on autopilot as he aimed his gun and shot a man who hadn't even the chance to lift the semi-automatic in his hands.

* * *

Before Murdock could allow himself to celebrate – he had already prepared a song and everything – someone grabbed him by the scruff, lifting him to his feet and holding him close, a gun to his head.

He stumbled and knew he was not long for the conscious world. He could hardly breathe, how was he expected to play the part of a good little human shield?

Suddenly their march was halted and the gun was pressed roughly against his temple. The man behind him was shouting, screaming, his breath hot against his cheek.

"La'tiq an-nar –" I'll shoot, Murdock's mind offered.

"Put the gun down! Put it down!" A familiar voice, frantic and stressed, but fuck his ears were ringing and the Arabic and English were mixing together into one miserable and senseless language.

"Listen to me, you listen to me, I swear I will blow your fucking head off –" He was pulled backwards as he tried to concentrate on that voice.

"Face."

* * *

Hannibal broke the backdoor down with practiced ease.

"B.A., front door, it's open." He didn't need to waste time explaining. He knew the man would understand.

He could hear the voices, shouting front the levels above and he wasted no time. He scaled the first staircase in three long strides – a man came at him from behind, trying to grab at his heels, a buck knife in one hand. He turned quickly and elbowed the man in the throat, bringing him to the floor and smashing his head against the hard ground.

Reinforcements were coming. Their window was closing.

* * *

"…front door, it's open." B.A. grinned and floored it.

* * *

Face advanced on the man, his gun pointed at the bastard's head. He couldn't take the shot, he would hit Murdock, nick him at the least and it didn't look like the pilot could handle another injury.

The pilot looked awful – he was covered in blood and dirt and sand and his knees buckled sporadically. His hands were handcuffed in front of them and blood was dripping from his fingertips in thick rivulets.

The man was shouting at him in frantic Arabic and fuck he couldn't understand a damn word. The man dug the gun into the pilot's temple eliciting a groan and he snapped, just fucking snapped.

"Listen to me, you listen to me, I swear I will blow your fucking head off –"

His arms were shaking and the grip on his gun so tight he couldn't even feel its weight anymore.

"Face." He just barely caught the hoarse words and his heart was pumping so hard. He was so close yet he could do nothing, not without potentially harming his friend.

"Murdock, bud, I'm here, man, I'm here – " He took a step forward, a damn mistake because everything exploded.

"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" – "NO! NO! Put it down!"

* * *

Hannibal pulled himself outside the window, scaling the wall and pulling himself into the third floor window. He couldn't come up behind Face, that wouldn't help his position, not with Murdock playing shield.

He crawled through the window. The room's door was open, giving him a perfect view of the hallway.

"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!"

He lined up the shot and pulled the trigger.

* * *

There was the sound of a gunshot and his gut twisted as both Murdock and the man went down.

"Fuck, oh god, no, no, no, come on bud –" Face rushed forward, watching as a pool of blood gathered beneath them.

He kneeled down beside the injured pilot, pulling the blindfold from his face and rolling him onto his back, his hand moving to the man's bloody cheek.

He could have cried when a pair of green eyes squinted up at him.

* * *

"Face …. my hero?" Murdock managed – he couldn't really see Face, couldn't really see much of anything except those black and yellow spots, but he figured he deserved an A for effort.

There was a snort and the sound of someone sniffing.

"Damn straight, man. Now let's get you outta here." He felt two pairs of arms lift him up and he hissed against the pain.

"Knew you'd come." He mumbled, his head lolling to his chest. His feet touched the ground but they wouldn't hold; he mumbled an apology. He just couldn't get his stupid knees to work.

"It's okay, Captain. Let us do the work now." Hannibal. The Bossman was here. Good, that meant B.A. wasn't far behind and that he was free to pass out.

"Erm," He might as well warn them, "I thin' 'm gonna –"

* * *

"Let's move." Hannibal didn't waste anytime gathering the unconscious man between him and Face.

The building rocked and Face gave him a surprised look.

"What the hell was that?" They hurried down the first flight of stairs.

"Our ride."

* * *

B.A. pushed the door open, knocking over a table as he stepped out and into what he supposed was the foyer.

He pulled his pistol, ready to cover his teammates as they made their way to the first floor.

"Come on, come on," He muttered under his breath as the sounds of approaching hostiles echoed down the street.

Finally, his teammates appeared at the top of the landing and B.A. kept his pistol trained on the stairs and backdoor as Face and Hannibal manhandled their unconscious pilot into the back.

"Go, go, go!" Face shouted from the inside of the Humvee, the Captain's head in his lap.

B.A. didn't need to be told twice. He threw the vehicle into reverse and pulled out of the ruined building, the front wall collapsing completely as they made their way into the street.

B.A. powered down the street, dodging gunfire and hanging a tight right into an alley, barely missing an RPG. He drove for another five minutes before feeling safe enough to turn back and check on his team.

"How's he doing?" He shouted into the back as they hit a pothole. He managed a look back – fuck, he didn't even look like himself; grime and blood covered every inch of him and he looked so out of place in his BDU. His hair stuck to his forehead, matted with sweat and blood and his hands were covered in blood, whether from the cuffs or an injury he couldn't tell. Hannibal and Face were busying themselves trying to stem the bleeding from the worst of his wounds and mop up the blood that dribbled from his mouth with he cough and breath.

They were shaking him, trying to wake him and Face had begun to pat the man's cheek, his voice shaky as he urged the man to open his eyes.

Hannibal shouted something in his general direction before tossing the GPS into the front seat. The coordinates for the extraction point glowed like a beacon on the small screen.

B.A. wasted no time and pushed the pedal down as far as it would go.

* * *

…..

" – not dismissed, Captain. The team needs you, I need – "

….

…..

" –that it doesn't matter, man; the van, Mexico … just need my friend back – "

…..

…

…

" – along the line it – it changed. So, HM, I need you to wake up so I – so we – "

….

...

…

….

"I need you to wake up."

* * *

Six days later he opened his eyes.

His gaze drifted around the room, his body terribly sluggish from whatever drug cocktail they had him on. Despite the general haze his memory had remained somewhat intact. He could remember the Black Hawk, crashing said Hawk, getting kicked in the stomach after singing a rather pitchy version of Don't Stop Believin', Face's voice, a hideously bumpy car ride ….

"Good morning, Captain. It's about time." He slowly looked over to his left, his train of thought interrupted, and he found himself face to face with Hannibal Smith.

He opened his mouth to respond but could only cough. His throat felt ragged amd torn and he recognized the feeling – the aftereffects of being on a ventilator. Hannibal grabbed a small cup of water with a straw and helped him drink; it felt blissfully wonderful and like a stream of razors all at the same time.

He finished and cleared his throat, resting his head back against the pillow.

"Mornin', Colonel," he croaked, the corner of his lips quirking lazily, "s'rry, thou't I'd use thos' extra vac'tion days. How long?"

Hannibal grinned slightly as he reached over, placing his hand on the man's forehead, brushing back his unruly hair. Murdock closed his eyes, reveling in the cool touch.

"Six days. You scared the hell out of us, son." His voice sounded like gravel and the pilot felt guilty for a moment; they had probably driven themselves into the ground worrying about him.

"I know – I'll make it up t' y'all – promise." He didn't know how, not yet, but he was sure he could cook up something grand and beautiful, something majestic, maybe with unicorns or tigers or badgers. Yes, he thought, the majestic badger. They'd love that.

"Captain?" He must have zoned out for a moment - he'd have to come back to that later, much later. He managed an eloquent, "Hrmm?" and opened his eyes again.

"I'm going to go talk to your Doctor, let him know you're awake. See where we go from here. I'll be back soon." Murdock could only manage a sleepy nod as the man gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze before quietly exiting the room.

He decided to take advantage of his moment of consciousness and resumed his survey of the room.

He grinned as he spotted B.A., his large frame squeezed painfully into a small hospital chair, his chin resting on his chest – Murdock smiled, blinking slowly as the man began to snore. Knowing him he had probably spent every possible minute by his side calling him all sorts of interesting names – crazy, fool, reckless moron, crazy reckless moronic fool just to name a few - and was probably a few pints low on that good 'ol hemoglobin. They were always so mad at him when he 'misplaced' his.

He figured he owed the man at least ten stunt-free flights and a month straight of home cooked meals. Oh well, he'd be happy to do it. Anything for the big guy.

Next he looked to his right, an overly arduous and exhausting process. He wasn't even slightly surprised to see Face sitting in the same position as B.A., a few days worth of stubble shadowing his features.

He cleared his throat, an unusually painful motion.

The sound had Face bolting up and Murdock would have chuckled if his throat wasn't on fire. He watched, amused as Face took a moment to blink, clearly trying to orient himself.

"Down 'ere, Faceman." The look on the Lieutenant's face was priceless.

Face didn't say anything. Instead he leaned over and hugged the pilot as best he could, mindful of the man's injuries.

"How-how're you feeling." Face grabbed his hand, careful to avoid the IV; his hands were cold, probably a result of the IV fluids, but still -

"Tired. Sore," Murdock gave him a half smile as Face peered down at him with the intensity reserved only for things such as brain surgery; he really shouldn't worry so much, "Hi-igh."

Face snorted and gave a knowing nod before his expression fell and Murdock was sure he could detect the slightest quivering of his chin.

"You scared the shit out of me, HM," He paused, not trusting his constricting throat and wavering voice, "we weren't sure –"

Murdock stopped him, knowing Face could get carried away, could upset himself more than he needed.

"'M sorry," He swallowed, his mouth incredibly dry – he was losing his battle with fatigue and whatever fabulous painkiller they had him on had him feeling like he had cotton in his mouth and lead in his limbs, "Didn' mean t'."

"No, I know it's just – it's so good to have you back." And it's great to be back, Temp he thought in his best sports announcer voice.

He sighed, feeling the haze begin to gather at the back of his mind.

"Tired?" Face asked from the bedside, his voice sympathetic and warm. Murdock nodded. "Don't fight it, HM. You need the rest."

Murdock was inclined to agree but he didn't want to, not yet. Things had been looking pretty bad and he was pretty sure that had he been just another regular enlisted or had been on another team he would've bit the dust that day, would have been nothing but a bad memory immortalized on video.

Had he not been a part of Hannibal's team …

But he was. For some amazing and still illusive reason, he was and he was grateful each day for it.

"Face … Temp?" His voice was hardly a whisper now.

"Yeah, bud?"

"Thanks fer comin' t' get me" Face's eyes were moist and he nodded, his lips wording a small 'yeah' but nothing came out.

He slurred, fighting his drooping eyelids.

He smiled as he felt Face's hand give his a squeeze, the action comforting and sending a wave of warmth through his exhausted body and he was sure he could feel the slightest brush of lips against his forehead before he lost his battle with sleep.

* * *

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed – feel free to review. And a HUGE thank you to everyone you favorited and reviewed Falling With Style and Watch the Sky, it is most appreciated.

Tak Tak.


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